AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 


'?&&&• 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

HEW  YORK   •    BOSTON  •   CHICAGO  •   DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  •  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Lm 

TORONTO 


IMPERFECT  MOTHER 


J.  D.  BERESFORD     (0****— - 

Author  of  "The  Jervaise  Comedy,"  etc. 


•  • •.  :•• 


,»  j  »  » » 


jQcto  gotfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1920 

itt  riehU  reserved 


V<43  7L3^5~ 

COPYEIGHT,  1920, 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  May,  1990. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 


"TV/TEANING  to  say,  sir?"  queried  Hall  II  in 

-I*-*-   his  brightest  manner. 

"  Meaning  to  say,  Hall,  that  when  you  send  me 
up  an  essay  composed  almost  entirely  of  quotations 
from  standard  authors,  you  might  at  least  have  the 
honesty  to  admit  your  authorities." 

The  class  roused  itself  from  the  wearied  air  proper 
to  this  last  hour  in  English  literature.  Old  Ser- 
combe  was  not  one  of  the  regular  masters  at  the 
King's  School,  and  the  general  opinion  held  by  the 
nine  boys  who  came  to  him  for  instruction  was  that 
the  subject  had  been  tacked  on  to  the  ordinary 
school  work  in  Order  to  give  him  a  job.  They  had 
no  respect  for  his  particular  form  of  scholarship, 
and  Hall  II  had  expressed  the  popular  feeling  when 
he  had  said  that  any  fool  could  teach  English." 
Moreover,  the  class  was  held  at  the  tail  of  the  week, 
and  both  master  and  boys  accepted  the  fact  that  the 
second  hour  on  Friday  afternoon  was  just  a  time  to 
be  "  got  through  " — particularly  in  the  hot  weather. 

The  prospect  of  a  sparring  match  between  old 
Sercombe  and  young  Hall  presented  itself  as  quite 
a  desirable  mean.s  of  "  getting  through  "  the  present 
lesson.  Young  Hall  was  rather  good  at  a  rag  of 
this  kind.  His  father  was  editor  of  the  Med- 
borough  News,  and  it  was  therefore  a  fair  inference 


i "  i 


2  AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

that  the  son  ought  to  "  know  something  about  writ- 
ing."    The  class  stiffened  to  a  new  alertness. 

"  Well,  sir,"  Hall  explained,  "  I  did  ask  my 
father  about  it  and  he  said  it  spoilt  your  style  and 
gave  the  comp  unnecessary  trouble  to  smother  your 
stuff  with  quote-marks." 

Old  Sercombe  winced  slightly  at  the  abbreviated 
technicalities,  but  made  no  comment  on  Hall's  facile 
use  of  them. 

"  Very  interesting,"  he  remarked  drily.  "  And 
did  your  father  give  you  any  other  advice,  Hall?  " 

"  Told  me  to  be  bright,  sir." 

"  You  are,  I  presume,  proposing  to  take  up  jour- 
nalism as  a  profession?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Old  Sercombe  glanced  down  at  the  essay  before 
him  as  if  he  wished  to  reconsider  it  in  the  new  light 
afforded  by  young  Hall's  statement. 

"  As  journalism  it  might  pass,"  he  remarked  in 
the  undertone  he  so  often  adopted;  speaking,  it 
seemed,  more  to  himself  than  to  his  class.  But 
then  you  understand,  Hall,  you  come  here  not  to 
study  journalism  but  the  right  use  of  English." 

"  Meaning  to  say,  sir,"  young  Hall  returned 
cheerfully,  "  that  journalists  don't  write  good  Eng- 
lish? " 

Old  Sercombe  sighed  and  glanced  round  at  the 
now  attentive  faces  of  the  boys  who  composed  this 
"  special  subject  "  class.  He  felt  old  and  helpless 
and  altogether  out  of  his  proper  atmosphere.  How 
could  he  possibly  explain  to  the  uncomprehending 
youth  of  the  twentieth  century  all  the  nice  distinc- 
tions, of  which  he  himself  was  so  sensitively  aware, 
between  journalism  and  literature?  The  differences 
as  he  saw  them  at  that  moment  were  largely  due  to 
a  wonderful  tradition.     A  finely  trained  sense  of 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER  3 

values  was  essential  before  one  could  justly  appre- 
ciate the  beauties  of  phrase  or  rhythm  or  ordered  ex- 
pression. This  journalist's  son  with  his  handsome 
impudent  face,  who  used  such  shorthand  as  "  comp  " 
or  quote-marks,"  would  be  incapable  of  recognizing 
the  differences  if  they  were  displayed  for  him.  He 
belonged  to  a  new  world  in  which  it  was  the  mission 
of  writers  to  be  "  bright,"  and  the  values  of  liter- 
ature as  such  were  of  no  account.  What  Hall  and 
his  contemporaries  wanted  was  a  kind  of  brisk  and 
pungent  shorthand. 

Seeing  no  way  of  explanation,  old  Sercombe  at- 
tempted an  evasion.  "  I  have  been  holding  this  class 
twice  a  week  now  for  two  months,"  he  said;  "  is  there 
any  boy,  here,  who  can  frame  a  definition  of  the  dif- 
ferences between  journalism  as  we  find  it  in  such 
papers  as,  for  instance,  the  Daily  Mail,  and  classical 
English  literature?" 

For  a  few  seconds  there  was  a  blank  silence.  This 
was  a  rather  unfair  return  to  teaching.  To  demand 
thought  from  them  at  half  past  three  on  a  hot  Friday 
afternoon  seemed  to  the  majority  of  the  class  as 
little  short  of  criminal. 

It  was  Hall  II  who  finally  replied. 

"  Journalism's  much  easier  to  understand,  sir,"  he 
said  with  a  touch  of  impertinence.  "  When  you're 
writing  for  a  paper  you  have  to  say  what  you  mean 
straight  out  without  any  " —  he  paused  before  he 
added  with  an  emphasis  that  was  designed  to  antici- 
pate any  risk  of  his  joke  missing  fire,  without  any 
circum-locutions,  sir." 

One  or  two  of  the  class  sniggered  audibly. 

Old  Sercombe  hesitated.  Secretly  he  appreciated 
the  boy's  wit;  but  amateur  as  he  was  in  the  business 
of  keeping  order,  he  was  afraid  to  approve  a  pun 
that  had  labeled  himself  as  a  tedious  pedant.     The 


4  AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

dilemma  drove  him  to  the  usual  resource  of  the  in- 
experienced teacher.  He  attempted  to  assert  his 
superiority  by  the  use  of  irony. 

"  No  doubt  journalism  would  appeal  to  you,  Hall," 
he  said.  "  The  simple  and  the  bright  are  just  within 
the  limits  of  your  mental  capacity.  But  I  must  point 
out  that  while  you've  defined  journalism  quite  capa- 
bly, your  suggestion  that  fine  literature  is  a  matter  of 
circumlocution  is  hopelessly  beside  the  mark." 

Young  Hall's  expression  was  one  of  wicked  inno- 
cence. He  was  seventeen,  one  of  the  "  cracks  "  of 
the  first  eleven,  and  he  had  no  fear  that  the  master's 
irony  would  be  turned  against  him  by  the  rest  of  the 
class.  If  he  had  been  less  sure  of  himself,  he  might 
have  dreaded  the  playground  repercussions  of  "  sim- 
ple and  bright." 

"  What's  your  own  definition  of  '  fine  literature  ' 
then,  sir?  "  he  asked  impudently. 

Old  Sercombe  was  intimidated.  He  did  not  un- 
derstand boys.  He  ought  never  to  have  accepted 
the  head-master's  invitation  to  take  this  class.  He 
had  thought  that  they  would  respect  his  years  and 
proved  scholarship;  that  his  relations  with  them 
would  be  those  of  an  honored  parent,  gently  con- 
descending to  his  children's  admissions  of  ignorance. 
But  this  self-assertive,  self-confident  youth  chal- 
lenged him,  and  in  these  surroundings  with  that  audi- 
ence, would  inevitably  defeat  him.  He  could  give 
no  definition  of  fine  literature  that  would  strike  any 
response  from  these  callous  uncultivated  minds.  In 
imagination  he  heard  his  explanations  repeated  along 
the  corridors  as  another  instance  of  old  Sercombe's 
"  locutions."  His  most  scholarly  endeavor  would 
sound  prosy  and  pedantic  to  these  young  intelligences 
solely  concerned  with  their  vivid  encounter  with  re- 
ality.    They  were  all  of  a  different  class  and  period 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER  5 

from  his  own,  and  he  had  no  means  of  communi- 
cating with  them. 

With  a  sigh  of  despair  he  glanced  desperately- 
round  the  form  —  and  unexpectedly  found  salvation. 

Among  the  nine,  there  was  one  boy  who  was  not 
sniggeringly  expectant  of  his  defeat;  a  boy  who  was 
regarding  him  with  a  look  that  seemed  to  express 
a  kindly  sympathy  with  his  distress.  It  was  young 
Kirkwood:  the  son  of  the  bookseller  in  Long  Cause- 
way. Sercombe  remembered  having  seen  him  in  his 
father's  shop;  but  he  had  never  spoken  to  him  there, 
nor  had  the  boy  shown  any  marked  intelligence  or 
aptitude  in  the  course  of  these  lessons  in  literature. 

"  Well,  Kirkwood,"  he  said,  "  can  you  help  us?  " 
He  felt  curiously  relieved,  as  if  he  had  found  ease 
after  pain. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  can,  sir,"  Kirkwood  replied 
after  an  obvious  hesitation.  u  I  mean,  sir,  I  can't 
think  of  any  definition.  I  suppose  literature,  the 
kind  we're  talking  about,  either  appeals  to  you  or  it 
doesn't."  He  paused  before  he  added,  "  And  if  it 
doesn't  happen  to,  I  suppose  you'll  never  be  able  to 
understand  it." 

No  reproof  had  been  intended  but  Henry  Ser- 
combe felt  that  he  had  been  reproved  and  had  de- 
served his  lesson.  What  right  had  he  to  teach? 
Kirkwood's  statement  applied,  also,  to  him.  The 
minds  and  ambitions  of  these  boys  did  not  appeal  to 
him  and  how  could  he  ever  hope  to  understand  them? 
They  belonged  to  a  new  generation  that  had  grown 
up  without  his  being  aware  of  it.  Nevertheless  lie 
was  stirred,  now,  by  the  hope  that  this  one  boy  with 
his  kindly  air  might  possibly  serve  as  an  interpreter 
between  him  and  this  new,  strange  humanity. 

"  That  goes  very  near  the  heart  of  the  whole 
matter,   Kirkwood,"  he  said.     "  Very  near.     It  is 


6  AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

true  that  the  best  literature  while  receiving  universal 
recognition  does  not  make  an  universal  appeal." 

With  a  relieved  mind,  he  turned  back  to  Hall  II. 
11  Can  you  grasp  that  point,  Hall?  " 

"  You  didn't  ask  Kirkwood  whether  literature  ap- 
pealed to  him,  sir,"  Hall  replied.  He  was  some- 
what jealous  of  Kirkwood's  popularity.  It  had  a 
quality  so  different  from  his  own  and  Kirkwood's 
father  was  only  a  bally  shopkeeper.  "  He  ought  to 
be  a  fair  test,  sir,"  he  added;  he  was  born  in  it, 
so  to  speak." 

"You  admit  you  weren't,  then?"  Kirkwood  an- 
swered without  waiting  for  a  ruling  from  the  master. 

"  I've  admitted  that  there's  a  big  difference  be- 
tween journalism  and  literature,"  retorted  Hall  in  a 
tone  of  one  who  would  have  added  "  you  ass  "  on 
freer  ground.  "  The  point  is  whether  there's  much 
use  for  the  old-fashioned  sort  of  literature  nowa- 
days." 

"  You  seemed  to  have  used  it  in  your  essay  all 
right,"  remarked  Kirkwood  with  a  smile. 

"  Oh !  anything  was  good  enough  for  that,"  Hall 
retorted  rudely. 

"  Even  Shakespeare,"  interpolated  Henry  Ser- 
combe.  He  preferred  to  overlook  the  impertinence 
of  Hall's  answer.  This  should  be  the  last  lesson  he 
would  give.  He  would  explain  to  Dr.  Weatherley 
after  school  that  a  more  capable  exponent  must  be 
found  for  this  class  in  English  literature;  some 
younger  man  who  understood  this  strange  new  gener- 
ation. 

"  By  the  way,  Hall,"  he  continued,  "  where  did 
you  find  all  these  apt  phrases  that  you  lifted  without 
acknowledgment?  " 

"  Bartlett's  dictionary  of  quotations,  sir,"  Hall  re- 
plied promptly. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER  7 

"  Ah!  you  ought  to  make  quite  an  able  journalist," 
was  old  Sercombe's  comment  on  that.  He  had  lost 
his  fear  of  Hall.  He  was  free,  now,  from  further 
responsibility  in  this  particular  connection;  and  he 
was  no  longer,  quite  alone  in  the  class-room.  He 
felt  that  young  Kirkwood,  in  some  inexplicable  way, 
understood  his  position;  and  the  sense  of  that  under- 
standing comforted  him. 

uAh!  well  .  .  ."  he  began,  intending  to  revert 
after  the  long  interval,  to  his  interrupted  comments 
on  the  essays  before  him;  but  just  then  came  the 
sound  of  a  door  opening  on  the  corridor,  one  of  the 
class  muttered  "  Bell  "  in  an  audible  undertone,  and 
the  prophecy  was  immediately  afterwards  confirmed 
by  the  clangor  of  the  bell  itself. 

Old  Sercombe  nodded  his  dismissal  of  the  class. 

As  the  boys  filed  out,  not  too  noisily  for  they  were 
most  of  them  in  the  upper  school  and  but  recently 
aware  of  their  dignities,  he  was  wondering  if  he  could 
decently  keep  back  young  Kirkwood.  Left  to  him- 
self he  would  probably  have  made  no  effort  to  achieve 
his  desire.  He  had  always  been  too  sensitively  con- 
scious of  how  such  overtures  might  appear  to  the 
object  of  them.  But  in  this  case  his  problem  was 
solved  for  him.  Kirkwood  was  quite  obviously  lin- 
gering behind  the  others. 

11  Did  you  want  to  speak  to  me,  my  boy?  "  was 
Henry  Sercombe's  evasion  of  the  responsibility  for 
detaining  him.  All  his  life,  he  had  been  haunted  by 
the  knowledge  that  he  shirked  his  responsibilities. 

"  You  hadn't  done  my  essay,  sir,"  Kirkwood  said. 
"  Not  that  it  matters  a  bit,  of  course,  only  .   .   ." 

Sercombe  looked  up  and  met  the  boy's  singularly 
candid,  earnest  gaze. 

"  You  were  going  to  say?  "  he  said,  apologetically. 

"  You  see,  sir,  my  father  would  rather  like  me  to 


8  AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

go  in  for  writing  and  that  kind  of  thing,"  Kirkwood 
explained.  "  That's  really  why  I'm  attending  this 
class." 

"  And  you?  Do  you  feel  any  special  leaning  that 
way,  yourself?  " 

"  Absolutely  none,  sir.  And  I  don't  think  I've 
any  particular  ability  that  way,  either.  Do  you, 
sir?" 

Old  Sercombe  began  to  fumble  with  his  spectacles. 
He  was  afraid,  as  always,  to  give  a  definite  answer 
to  such  questions  as  these.  How  could  he  be  sure 
whether  the  boy  had  or  had  not  any  literary  gift? 

"  Well,  well.  It's  hard  to  say  from  the  material 
I  have  seen,"  he  prevaricated.  "  And,  then,  well, 
how  old  are  you,  now,  Kirkwood?  " 

"  Seventeen,  sir." 

Old  Sercombe  made  a  gesture  that  conveyed  some 
effect  of  renunciation.  Seventeen!  "  he  repeated. 
"  Well,  my  dear  boy,  one  can  say  definitely  at  least 
that  you  are  neither  a  Chatterton,  nor  a  Keats  — 
beyond  that  —  well,  in  ten  years'  time  I  might  be 
able  to  express  an  opinion." 

Kirkwood's  expression  was  not  one  of  final  satis- 
faction. "  You  see,  sir,"  he  began  apologetically. 
"  I  would  like  to  prove  to  my  father  that  there's  no 
chance  of  me  being  a  writer.  I'm  —  I'm  not  the 
sort.  I'm  quite  sure  of  that.  But  if  you  could  — 
in  a  way  —  back  me  up,  sir,  it  would  help." 

"  Is  there  any  other  —  profession  that  appeals  to 
you?  "  Sercombe  asked. 

"  I  believe  Mr.  Dickinson  would  take  me  into  his 
office,  sir." 

"Dickinson?'; 

11  James  Dickinson,  sir.     The  builder." 

"Ah!  yes,  to  be  sure;  the  builder.  And  you 
would  like  that?" 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER  9 

"  It  would  give  me  chances,  sir;  and  I  should  be 
doing  something." 

11  You  wouldn't  prefer  to  be  an  —  architect,  for 
example?  " 

Kirkwood  was  perfectly  sure  that  he  would 
not.  He  seemed  to  have  an  unusually  clear  recog- 
nition of  his  own  limitations  for  a  boy  of  seven- 
teen. "  It  would  take  so  long,  sir,  with  my  articles 
and  all  that  before  I  could  make  a  living," 
he  explained.  "  And,  then,  I'm  no  good  at  draw- 
ing." 

Old  Sercombe  pushed  up  his  spectacles  and  rubbed 
his  tired,  slightly  inflamed  eyes.  "  If  you've  made 
up  your  mind  ...    ?  "  he  suggested. 

Yes,  sir.  I  really  only  wanted  to  tell  my  father 
that  you  don't  think  I'd  be  any  good  as  a  writer.  It 
might  relieve  his  mind.  He  thinks  a  lot  of  your 
opinion,  sir." 

The  old  man  nodded  absently.  He  was  thinking 
of  the  fussy  little  bookseller  who  was  given  to  rather 
fulsome  praise  of  the  half  dozen  works  in  criticism 
that  he,  Henry  Sercombe,  had  published  in  the  course 
of  the  last  thirty  years.  Little  Kirkwood  was  just 
the  kind  of  man  who  would  boast  his  acquaintance 
with  a  local  celebrity,  and  who  would  seek  the  par- 
ticular kind  of  prestige  that  he  imagined  might  be 
gained  by  his  son's  becoming  an  author.  How  did 
Kirkwoood  come  to  have  so  candid  and  attractive 
a  son  as  this,  Sercombe  wondered?  Nevertheless  he 
fidgetted  at  the  thought  of  the  onus  that  was  being 
put  upon  him. 

"  I  —  I  could  only  say  that  you  were  still  too 
young  for  me  to  judge,"  he  remarked.  "  Has  he 
any  idea  of  sending  you  up  to  the  University?  " 

"  Oh  no,  sir.  He  couldn't  afford  that,"  young 
Kirkwood  said. 


io         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

Old  Sercombe  elevated  his  shaggy  gray  eyebrows, 
with  the  air  of  asking  a  question. 

11  Journalism  first,  I  suppose,  sir,"  the  boy 
answered  with  a  quiet  smile. 

The  old  man's  response  accepted  the  implied  con- 
fidence. 

14  We  can  safely  leave  the  future  of  journalism 
in  the  hands  of  our  friend  Hall  secundus,"  he  agreed, 
and  went  on  in  the  same  friendly  voice,  "And  you 
want  to  saddle  me  with  the  responsibility  of  dissuad- 
ing your  father?  " 

"  Please,  sir." 

11  I  shall  have  to  tell  the  truth,  you  know." 

"  I  want  you  to,  sir." 

Henry  Sercombe  realized  that  he  was  surprisingly 
on  the  verge  of  pledging  himself  to  an  alliance  with 
young  Kirkwood  against  his  father;  that  he  was  tak- 
ing sides  with  the  new  generation  he  had  so  recently 
despaired  of  understanding,  against  a  representative 
of  his  own  period.  He  dropped  his  spectacles  and 
stared  curiously  at  the  immediate  cause  of  this  re- 
markable change  in  himself. 

Until  this  afternoon,  he  had  not  particularly 
noticed  Stephen  Kirkwood.  He  had  not  stood  out 
from  the  rest  of  the  class  as  noticeably  differing 
from  the  species  that  the  unhappy  exponent  of 
English  literature  had  come  to  think  of  as  "  those 
dreadful  boys."  Kirkwood  was  less  inclined  to  be 
obstreperous  than  some  of  the  others,  he  looked 
clean  and  respectable,  but  he  had  had  no  other 
distinctive  marks  that  Sercombe  could  remember. 
If  he  had  been  asked  about  him,  he  would,  after  mak- 
ing an  effort  to  distinguish  his  personality  from  the 
rabble,  have  probably  replied  that  he  seemed  an 
"  unobnoxious  sort  of  youth."  Could  that  one  look 
of  sympathy,  he  had  seen,  have  made  so  much  dif- 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         n 

ference  that  he  was,  now,  ready  definitely  to  shoulder 
what  he  regarded  as  a  serious  responsibility  in  order 
to  help  the  boy  to  choose  his  own  occupation. 

The  habit  of  a  life-time  prompted  Henry  Ser- 
combe  to  procrastinate.  He  fidgetted  with  his 
spectacles,  again  rubbed  his  tired  eyes  (young  Hall 
could  "  do  "  that  trick  to  perfection)  and  then  im- 
mensely surprised  himself  by  saying: 

"  Very  well,  Kirkwood,  I'll  come  and  see  your 
father  and  do  what  I  can  to  bring  him  over  to  your 
point  of  view.  Er  —  you're  perfectly  sure  that  this 
employment  at  Dickinson's  is  the  best  thing  you  can 
do?" 

"  Quite  sure,  sir.  I'm  awfully  obliged  to  you, 
sir,"  Stephen  Kirkwood  replied  with  a  charming  in- 
genuousness. 

After  he  had  gone,  old  Sercombe  suddenly  remem- 
bered that  there  was  something  unusual  about  the 
boy's  mother.  What  was  it?  She  was  something 
of  a  musician  in  a  small  way;  played  accompaniments 
at  concerts  occasionally  and  sang  rather  well.  But 
had  not  some  one  told  him,  quite  lately,  an  incredible 
story  about  her  and  Dr.  Threlfall,  the  cathedral 
organist?  An  incredible  story.  Why  the  woman 
must  be  over  forty. 

"  But  a  nice  boy,  I  should  say,  an  unusually  nice 
boy,"  the  retiring  preceptor  murmured  aloud  to  the 
lonely  resonant  spaces  of  the  deserted  class-room. 
"  An  honest,  gentle  face  and  —  and,  oddly,  for  his 
age  —  sympathetic.  Perhaps,  I  had  better  continue 
the  class  until  the  end  of  term." 


Stephen  was  quite  certain  as  he  hurried  down  the 
empty  corridor   that  the  world  was   a   thoroughly 


12         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

satisfactory  place  to  live  in.  His  father  who  had 
been  exhibiting  signs  of  that  characteristically  weak 
obstinacy  of  his  with  regard  to  his  son's  choice  of 
profession  must  be  convinced  now.  When  Stephen 
had  elatedly  announced  last  Easter  that  he  had  actu- 
ally been  stopped  by  Mr.  Dickinson,  himself,  in  the 
street,  had  been  asked  when  he  was  leaving  school 
and  whether  he  had  ever  considered  the  question  of 
going  into  the  building  trade,  he  had  repeated  the 
great  news  to  his  father  with  a  tremendous  burst  of 
satisfaction.  Here,  Stephen  had  thought,  was  a 
wonderful  opportunity  unexpectedly,  miraculously 
sprung  from  heaven;  and  he  had  been  perplexed  and 
distressed  by  his  father's  reception  of  the  news. 
He  had  known  that  he  would  have  to  persuade  his 
mother,  she  had  impossible  transcendental  ambitions 
for  him,  but  he  had  been  certain  that  he  would  have 
his  father  on  his  side.  And  his  father  had  proved 
unbelievably  difficult;  had  talked  queer  stuff  about 
Stephen's  "commencing  author";  and  had  finally 
begged  him  to  attend  the  new  class  which  the  famous 
—  Mr.  Kirkwood  insisted  on  the  adjective  —  Henry 
Sercombe  was  to  take  at  the  King's  School,  next 
term. 

Stephen  had  consented  against  his  own  judgment; 
and  in  the^  course  of  the  past  two  months,  a  sense 
of  oppression  had  been  growing  upon  him.  Some- 
thing within  him  had  inarticulately  protested  against 
his  conscientious  endeavors  to  submit  himself  to  the 
idea  of  this  new  ambition.  The  writing  of  his 
weekly  essay  had  induced  a  strange  feeling  of  sick 
distaste,  that  he  could  not  explain;  a  feeling  that 
had  seemed  in  some  way  to  be  impersonal,  as  if, 
as  he  had  stumblingly  tried  to  put  it,  "  something 
simply  wouldn't  let  him  write."  He  had  been  har- 
assed, too,  by  a  persistent  nightmare,  quite  new  in 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER  13 

his  experience,  a  nightmare  of  being  confined  in 
some  intolerably  dark  and  restricted  place  from 
which  he  struggled  desperately  to  break  out.  Some- 
times he  had  succeeded  and  waked  with  a  beautiful 
sense  of  relief. 

He  had  something  of  the  same  sense  of  relief, 
now,  after  his  talk  in  the  class-room.  With  that 
authority  behind  him,  he  felt  sure  that  his  father 
must  give  way,  and  he  meant  to  persuade  his  mother. 
He  had  no  doubt  of  his  ability  to  persuade  his 
mother  —  ultimately.  He  and  she  understood  each 
other,  he  believed  —  although  another  wonderful 
thing  had  happened  to  him  that  day  which  he  had 
no  intention  of  confiding  to  her.  There  were  half  a 
dozen  good  reasons  for  that,  but  the  chief  of  them 
was  that  in  this  case,  she  could  not  be  expected  to 
understand. 

No  one  could,  except,  perhaps,  Hall  II  —  who 
knew,  and  was  no  doubt  "  frightfully  wild  about 
it."  Stephen  was  prepared  to  have  to  fight  Hall  in 
the  near  future.  He  had,  indeed,  a  distinct  feeling 
that  he  would  like  to  fight  Hall. 

She  was  only  fourteen,  the  daughter  of  the  head- 
master, but  she  was  an  ideal.  The  boys  only  saw 
her  once  a  day  at  the  school  dinner,  which  was  at- 
tended by  a  number  of  the  day  boys  as  the  new 
school-buildings  that  had  superseded  the  old  school 
in  the  cloisters  twenty  years  ago,  were  a  long  mile 
out  of  the  town.  She  and  her  mother,  her  younger 
sisters  and  their  governess  sat  at  a  separate  table 
in  the  corner  of  the  Hall,  and  this  term,  she  had  very 
obviously  distracted  the  attention  of  perhaps  half-a- 
dozen  of  the  elder  boys.  It  was  a  thing  understood, 
but,  except  in  the  case  of  the  impossible  Mallows,  a 
thing  not  discussed. 

She  had  been  a  creature,  remote  and  exquisite,  be- 


i4         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

longing  quite  obviously  to  the  world  of  fairies. 
Such  boys  as  Hall  or  Preston,  high  up  in  the  school, 
dared  an  occasional,  sheepish  glance  in  her  direction 
now  and  then;  but  the  only  acknowledgment  they 
made  of  their  infatuation  was  a  faint  embarrassment 
if  her  name  happened  to  be  mentioned  —  it  some- 
times took  the  form  of  smacking  the  heads  of  small 
boys  who  spoke  irreverently.  With  Nellie  Graham, 
the  dashing,  exuberant  beauty  of  the  town,  one,  it 
was  admitted,  could  take  liberties  in  speech.  She 
was  well  over  twenty  and  Preston  for  example  could 
be  legitimately  envied  for  the  boast  that  he  had  held 
her  hand  during  evensong  at  the  Cathedral.  Little 
Miss  Margaret  Weatherley's  personality  was  sacred 
to  her  admirers  for  two  reasons;  the  first  that  she 
was  less  a  human  being  than  an  almost  religious  sym- 
bol of  the  feminine;  the  second  that  she  was  too 
young. 

Stephen  had  never  been  an  acknowledged  mem- 
ber of  the  select  group  who  dared  the  sacrilege  of 
furtive  glances  at  the  headmaster's  table.  Neither 
Hall,  Mallows,  nor  Preston  had  regarded  him  as  a 
rival,  and  if  Stephen  had  been  openly  questioned,  he 
would  have  said  at  once  that  he  thought  that  kind 
of  thing  "  all  rot."  It  was  Miss  Weatherley,  her- 
self, who  had  suddenly  raised  him  to  a  giddy,  un- 
stable pinnacle.  She  had  never  until  to-day  been 
known  to  show  by  the  least  sign  that  she  was  aware 
of  any  one  of  the  fifty  odd  boys  who  shared  the  din- 
ing hall  with  her  for  one-half  hour  every  day.  Her 
mother  and  her  governess  sat  facing  the  mob,  and  it 
was  a  safe  inference  that  if  Margaret  had  a  prefer- 
ence, she  would  be  too  discreet  to  attempt  any 
advertisement  of  it.  And  to-day,  she  had  percep- 
tibly lingered  in  leaving  the  room  —  most  of  the 
boys  had  already  gone  when  she  got  up  from  the 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER  15 

table  —  and   had    astoundingly   smiled    at   Stephen. 

The  simple  fact,  unannounced  as  it  was  by  any 
kind  of  precedent,  would  have  been  sufficient  to  mark 
the  opening  of  a  new  era.  But  as  Hall,  probably 
the  only  witness,  knew,  the  smile  had  had  a  very 
special  quality.  The  fairy  had  confessed  herself 
mortal.  As  she  had  followed  at  the  tail  of  the 
female  procession  towards  the  mysterious  shrine  of 
her  father's  private  house,  she  had  turned  round 
deliberately  and  hailed  the  favored  Stephen,  as  a 
young  woman  might  call  to  her  lover.  It  had  been 
a  beckoning  smile,  with  enough  evidence  of  self- 
consciousness  behind  it  to  give  a  flavor  that  was  as 
illicit  as  it  was  exciting.  Stephen  had  stood,  wonder- 
struck  and  blushing.  He  could  not  be  sure  now 
whether  or  not  he  had  actually  acknowledged  her 
favor  by  any  response  in  kind  —  an  uncertainty 
that  faintly  distressed  him.  He  had  been  so  unpre- 
pared, so  simply  wonderstruck.  And  before  he  had 
had  time  to  recover  she  was  gone  with  a  little  toss 
of  her  short  skirts  and  her  long  hair,  that  had 
seemed  definitely  to  place  her  salute  of  him  as  the 
opening  of  a  fond  intrigue. 

The  most  modest  and  ingenuous  of  young  men 
must  have  been  bewilderingly  flattered.  Stephen 
felt  as  if  he  had  in  some  inexplicable  way  been 
amazingly  promoted  to  high  honors.   .  .   . 

When  he  left  the  class-room,  Stephen  found  Hall 
waiting  for  him  at  the  entrance  to  the  playground 
and  braced  himself  to  the  quarrel  he  instinctively  an- 
ticipated. Hall,  however,  displayed  no  sign  of  ill- 
feeling. 

"Hallo!"  was  his  greeting.  "What  on  earth 
have  you  been  talking  to  old  Sercombe  about,  all 
this  time?  " 

Stephen  stared  at  his  rival  with  the  least  touch  of 


i6         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

condescension.  "  Oh,  I  dunno,"  he  said.  "  About 
me  taking  up  writing  for  a  living." 

"  What  did  he  say?"  Hall  enquired. 

"He's  promised  to  tell  my  father  I'm  no  good 
at  it." 

"  You  aren't  keen,  are  you?  "  Hall  returned,  and 
added.  "  Coming  my  way,  I  suppose?  Or  are 
you  going  up  to  the  field  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  going  back,  now,"  Stephen  said.  He 
was  still  puzzled,  but  Hall's  suggestion  that  they 
should  go  together  appeared  to  point  an  intention  of 
11  having  it  out  "  in  the  comparative  solitude  of  the 
Park  Road  —  perhaps  in  the  Park  itself.  Stephen 
was  quite  willing,  if  that  were  Hall's  object. 

But  Hall  soon  displayed  the  astonishing  fact  that 
his  intentions  were  pacific,  even  unusually  friendly. 
After  a  short  silence  that  carried  them  out  of  the 
school  precincts  he  opened  the  only  possible  topic 
of  importance,  by  saying,  with  a  marked  embarrass- 
ment: 

"  She  seems  to  have  taken  a  fancy  to  you."  He 
kept  his  eyes  averted  from  his  companion  and  sed- 
ulously dribbled  a  loose  stone  along  the  path  as 
he  continued,  "  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I'm 
out  of  it  anyway.  I've  been  off  it,  really,  for  some 
time ;  she's  such  a  frightful  kid,  and  I'm  rather  keen 
on  some  one  else,  now ;  no  one  you  know.  Of  course, 
none  of  us  had  any  idea  that  you  were  playing  that 
game." 

"  But  I'm  not,"  Stephen  interrupted.  "  I  mean 
I've  hardly  ever  looked  at  her,  even." 

"  All  serene,  keep  your  hair  on,"  Hall  said,  re- 
covering something  of  his  usual  aplomb.  "  /  sha'n't 
give  you  away.     I'm  not  that  sort." 

11  Nothing  to  give  away,"  Stephen  mumbled,  sud- 
denly aware  of  a  new  and  distinctly  unpleasant  aspect 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER  17 

of  HalPs  unconditional  resignation.  It  was  true 
that  Stephen's  conscience  was  clear  of  any  reproach, 
but  Hall's  account  of  the  episode,  now  that  he  had 
definitely  resigned  all  ambition  of  winning  the  lady's 
notice,  might  contain  all  kinds  of  implications.  His 
journalistic  ability  would  "  spice  "  the  story,  and  as 
a  result  Stephen  would  be  unmercifully  ragged  by 
chaps  like  Mallows.  And  Stephen  felt  that  any 
ragging  on  that  subject  would  be  almost  unbearable. 
He  did  not  delude  himself  with  the  notion  that  he 
was  in  any  sense  "  in  love  "  with  little  Margaret 
Weatherley,  but  her  smile  had  marked  him  out  as 
her  champion.  After  that,  he  could  not  let  her  name 
be  lightly  used  by  such  cads  as  Mallows. 

"  Well,  you're  not  going  to  kid  me  that  you've 
never  spoken  to  her,  in  the  town  or  somewhere," 
Hall  replied. 

11  I  haven't,"  Stephen  protested  indignantly. 
11  Never  once.  I  tell  you  I've  hardly  looked  at 
her,  even." 

Hall  smiled.  "  Well,  why  did  she  grin  at  you, 
then?  "  He  posed  his  question  with  the  quiet  cer- 
tainty of  one  who  knows  that  there  can  be  no  ade- 
quate reply. 

"  No  idea,"  Stephen  said. 

"That  won't  work,  you  know  —  obviously," 
Hall  returned. 

"  I'll  swear  on  my  oath,  I've  never  spoken  to  her," 
affirmed  Stephen  with  great  solemnity. 

Hall's  handsome,  dishonest  face  still  wore  the 
same  disingenuous  smile  as  he  said,  "  Oh,  well,  of 
course,  if  you  say  so.  .  .  ." 

11  I'll  swear  it  on  anything  you  like,"  Stephen  per- 
sisted. 

"  Funny,  her  grinning  at  you  like  that,"  Hall  com- 
mented softly. 


18  AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

Stephen  winced  at  the  repetition  of  that  vulgar 
and  inappropriate  description  of  little  Miss  Weath- 
erley's  more  than  perfect  smile.  He  knew  that  the 
use  of  the  unpleasant  word  was  mere  brag  meant  to 
confirm  Hall's  statement  that  he  "  was  out  of  it," 
that  henceforward  Margaret  Weatherley  was  noth- 
ing to  him  but  "  a  kid,"  entirely  beneath  his  notice; 
but  to  pass  the  insult  without  protest  seemed  like  an 
act  of  disloyalty. 

"  She  didn't  —  grin,"  he  muttered  savagely. 

"  Sorry,  I  forgot,"  apologized  Hall  with  apparent 
sincerity. 

"  Forgot  what?  "  Stephen  asked. 

"  Forgot  you  were  so  frightfully  gone  on  her." 

Stephen  suppressed  his  inclination  to  deny  that. 
Three  hours  before,  he  would  have  scorned  the  idea 
with  careless  contempt.  Now,  he  was  not  so  sure. 
He  returned  to  the  main  issue. 

"  Perfectly  rotten  of  you,  if  you  were  to  sneak  to 
Preston  or  Mallows,  or  any  one,"  he  said. 

"  I've  told  you  I  wouldn't,"  Hall  replied/with  an 
unconvincing  warmth. 

"  You  swear,"  Stephen  insisted. 

"  Rather,  of  course,"  Hall  agreed. 

They  had  reached  the  bottom  of  Park  Road,  and 
at  Priestgate  their  ways  diverged. 

"  I  should  think  you  could  trust  me  not  to  do  a 
rotten  thing  like  that,"  Hall  said  as  they  paused. 

Stephen  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes,  and  his 
stare  was  returned  with  a  self-conscious  defiance. 

"  I  should  have  to  jolly  well  lick  you,  if  you  did, 
you  know,"   Stephen  said. 

^  Hall's     stare     wavered.     "  Don't     be     a     silly 
Cuckoo,"  he  protested  sheepishly. 

u  Well,  I  should,"  Stephen  persisted. 

"  If  you  could,  of  course,"  sneered  Hall. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER  19 

11  Oh,  I  could  all  right,"  Stephen  said.  Every- 
one knew  that  Hall  was  rather  a  funk. 

"  Good  Lord,  what's  all  the  fuss  about?  "  Hall 
replied.  "  Haven't  I  sworn  I  wouldn't  say  any- 
thing? " 

Hall  was  commonly  known  at  school  as  "  rat,"  a 
nickname  that  he  had  earned  by  his  habit  of  biting 
the  tips  of  his  fingers,  but  it  occurred  to  Stephen  at 
this  moment  that  the  description  might  have  other 
applications.  There  was  something  very  shifty 
about  young  Hall.  And  his  elder  brother,  an  over- 
grown lout  of  nearly  nineteen,  was  an  awful  beast. 


Mr.  Kirkwood  was  alone  in  the  shop  when 
Stephen  went  in.  A  kind  of  general  understanding 
existed  that  he  should  not  enter  the  house  by  that 
route,  but  ringing  at  the  side  door  involved  bringing 
some  one  down  from  the  first  floor  to  let  him  in, 
and  in  practice  he  almost  invariably  entered  by  the 
shop.  On  this  particular  afternoon,  however,  his 
father  appeared  to  resent  the  accustomed  breach  of 
etiquette. 

Couldn't  you  make  any  one  hear?  "  he  asked  on 
a  note  of  complaint. 

"  Didn't  try  as  a  matter  of  fact,  father,"  Stephen 
answered.  "  Does  it  matter?  "  He  paused  slightly 
before  he  added,  "  Ada's  day  out,  too.  All 
the  same  I  generally  come  in  this  way.  Do  you 
mind?"   f 

Mr.  Kirkwood  was  bending  over  a  ledger.  "  It 
isn't  of  much  consequence  when  there  are  no  custo- 
mers here,"  he  mumbled.  "  You'd  better  get  on 
with  your  tea.  I  don't  know  if  your  mother's  in  or 
not.     I  shall  have  to  wait  until  Green  comes  back. 


20         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

He's  gone  with  a  couple  of  parcels.  He  shouldn't 
be  long,  now." 

Stephen  accepted  his  dismissal,  passed  through  the 
shop  into  the  room  behind,  used  as  a  combination  of 
store-room  for  extra  stock  and  "  counting-house  " 
and  so  through  a  side  door  into  the  passage  that 
led  to  the  house-door  and  up  the  stairs  to  what 
was  always  spoken  of  as  "  the  house." 

He  found  his  two  sisters  having  tea  in  the  kitchen. 

They  wore  an  air  of  breaking  off  a  conversation  as 
he  came  in,  although  they  must  have  heard  him  com- 
ing up  the  stairs. 

"Hello!  where's  mother?"  Stephen  asked. 

Emily,  the  elder  girl,  looked  up  at  her  brother 
with  her  habitual,  intent  stare.  Up  to  the  age  of 
fifteen  she  had  peered  at  life  with  uncertain,  short- 
sighted eyes.  Until  then  no  one  had  realized  the 
handicap  under  which  she  labored.  But  after  rather 
powerful  glasses  had  brought  her  the  gift  of  ordinary 
vision,  she  peered  no  longer.  "  It's  such  a  comfort 
to  be  able  to  see,"  was  her  common  expression  of 
relief.  And  it  seemed  as  if  for  the  last  five  years 
she  had  tried  to  see  all  she  could.  Strangers  often 
found  her  immensely  steady  stare  rather  embar- 
rassing. 

11  She  isn't  in  the  house,"  she  said  in  answer  to 
her  brother's  question.     "  Wasn't  she  in  the  shop  ?  " 

Stephen  shook  his  head.  "  Father  said  I  wasn't 
to  wait  for  him,"  he  said.  "  Green's  out  somewhere 
with  parcels.     Where's  mother  gone?  " 

"  I've  no  idea,"  Emily  replied,  with  an  effect  of 
ominous  solemnity.  "  I've  only  been  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour." 

**  She  went  out  soon  after  three,"  volunteered 
Hilda.  "  She  said  she  was  going  to  the  Cathe- 
dral." 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         21 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  she?"  enquired  Stephen 
brusquely. 

"  No  reason  that  I  know  of,"  Hilda  replied. 

"  Why  '  she  said  she  was  going,'  then?  " 

"  Well,  she  can't  have  been  at  the  Cathedral  all 
this  time,"  Hilda  returned.  ^   "  It's  half  past  five." 

M  Sh !  here's  father  coming,"  whispered  Emily 
with  a  kind  of  suppressed  violence. 

Stephen  frowned.  "  What  on  earth's  all  the  mys- 
tery about?"  he  asked  fretfully.  He  had  noticed 
that  his  sisters  had  lately  started  a  habit  of  speaking 
with  a  veiled  innuendo  about  his  mother's  doings,  a 
habit  that  he  found  increasingly  annoying. 

11  Who  said  there  was  any  mystery?  "  Emily  en- 
quired with  her  dominating  stare,  posing  the  ques- 
tion as  if  she  were  examining  her  class  at  the  National 
School,  and  was  very  intent  on  forcing  some  unfor- 
tunate examinee  into  an  obvious  mis-statement. 

"  Well,"  Stephen  began,  and  then  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  as  the  sound  of  his  father's  step  reached 
the  landing.  "  I  don't  mean  there  is  any  mystery, 
only  what  you  and  Hilda  try  to  make  out,"  he  con- 
cluded hastily,  in  order  to  get  his  case  clear  before 
he  was  interrupted. 

Mr.  Kirkwood  came  into  the  room  with  a  melan- 
choly air. 

"Tea  in  the  kitchen  to-day?"  he  enquired  as  he 
took  his  seat  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

"  Ada's  day  out,  father,"  Hilda  explained  per- 
functorily. 

Mr.  Kirkwood  had  adopted  the  theory  that  he 
was  very  absent-minded,  but  neither  of  his  daughters 
had  the  least  faith  in  it. 

11  To  be  sure,  so  it  is,"  he  agreed  carelessly,  and 
for  a  few  minutes  the  meal  progressed  unenlivened 
by  conversation.     The  bookseller's  demeanor  sug- 


22         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

gested  that  he  was  immersed  in  a  brown  study,  and 
wished  the  fact  to  be  clearly  understood. 

It  was  Stephen  who  interrupted  his  father's  medi- 
tations. 

"  Mr.  Sercombe's  coming  to  see  you,  one  day, 
soon,  father,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Kirkwood  looked  up  at  his  son  as  if  he  dimly 
remembered  having  seen  him  before,  somewhere. 

"  Who  did  you  say?  "  he  asked. 

11  Mr.  Sercombe,  father,"  Stephen  repeated.  "  I 
had  a  long  talk  with  him  to-day  about  my  becoming 
a  writer. 

"  And  his  advice  was?  " 

11  He  said  he  hadn't  seen  any  marks  of  genius, 
yet," 

"Well,  you  didn't  expect  him  to,  did  you?" 
Emily  inquired. 

"/didn't,"  Stephen  said. 

His  father  sighed  emphatically.  "  You've  set 
your  mind  against  becoming  an  author,  Stephen," 
he  remarked. 

"  Got  no  gift  that  way,  you  see,"  his  son  explained. 

"  How  can  you  tell,  yet?  "  Hilda  put  in. 

"  Negatively,  you  can,"  Stephen  responded.  "  I 
mean  if  you're  going  to  suffer  from  cocoethes 
scribendi,  the  symptoms  show  pretty  early." 

"  Not  always,"  Mr.  Kirkwood  commented. 
"  Neither  de  Quincey  nor  Charles  Lever  began  to 
write  until  they  were  over  thirty." 

u  Well,  but,  father,"  Stephen  pleaded,  "  if  the 
symptoms  develop  later,  I  could  begin  just  as  well 
then  like  de  Quincey  or  Lever." 

His  father  sighed  again,  patiently  this  time,  and 
was  apparently  preparing  to  explain  away  his  over- 
sight in  having  quoted  a  bad  precedent  for  his  own 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         23 

case,  when  they  heard  the  house-door  slam  with 
vigor. 

"  Did  your  mother  have  the  latch-key?  "  Mr. 
Kirkwood  asked  quickly. 

"  I  don't  know  that  she  did,  but  that's  her  right 
enough,"  Hilda  replied  cheerfully. 

For  a  moment  they  sat  in  silence,  listening,  until 
the  sound  of  another  door  closing  reached  them. 

"  Gone  to  take  her  hat  off.  She'll  be  in  in  a 
minute,"  Hilda  unnecessarily  explained. 

Emily  jumped  up,  took  the  tea-pot  and  went  over 
to  the  range. 

They  were  all  suddenly  more  alert,  more  alive 
than  they  had  been  a  minute  before.  Some  vitaliz- 
ing spirit  seemed  to  have  entered  into  them  with  the 
slamming  of  the  house-door. 


Less  than  a  year  ago,  the  Kirkwoods  had  been  to 
all  outward  appearances,  an  unusually  united  family. 
They  bickered  less  among  themselves,  they  were 
more  bound  by  a  common  interest,  than  the  members 
of  an  average  family  of  their  class.  But  in  the 
course  of  the  past  ten  months,  they  had  ceased  to 
be  a  family  and  become  a  group  of  individuals; 
although  they  were  not  yet  aware  of  the  great  change 
in  their  relations  to  one  another.  Each  of  them 
had  a  secret,  and  it  was  the  same  secret;  but  while 
all  of  them  suspected  that  the  others  knew,  only 
the  two  girls,  Emily  and  Hilda,  had  dared  to  whis- 
per together  of  the  dreadful  fear  that  was  shaking 
them. 

The  bond  that  had  held  them  so  closely  together 
and  was,  now,  so  alarmingly  relaxed,  was  a  common 
admiration.     Cecilia    Kirkwood   was    no    romantic 


24         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

prototype  of  motherhood.  Of  the  four  beings 
under  her  immediate  influence  only  Stephen  truly 
loved  her,  and  even  his  devotion  had  wavered  dur- 
ing the  uncertainties  of  the  last  few  weeks.  But 
she  had  an  astonishing  gift  of  begetting  and  retain- 
ing admiration.  In  the  town  she  was  regarded  with 
a  curious  mixture  of  respect  and  suspicion  which 
was  Medboro's  manner  of  concealing  an  admiration 
it  dared  not  openly  display.  Medboro\  as  a  cathe- 
dral city,  held  all  artists  to  be  suspect;  and  Mrs. 
Kirkwood  aggravated  the  offense  by  being  an  artist 
married  to  a  perfectly  respectable  book-seller  in  the 
Long  Causeway.  The  combination  was  frankly  a 
contradiction  of  all  probability,  and  the  town  did 
not  believe  in  improbabilities. 

Another  reason  for  the  town's  suspicion  was  added 
by  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Kirkwood  had  the  bad  taste 
to  look  ten  years  younger  than  her  age.  The  clois- 
ters with  their  nice  respect  for  the  accepted  decencies 
of  life,  regarded  it  as  improper  for  a  woman  of  over 
forty  with  a  grown-up  family  not  only  to  dress  but 
to  look  as  if  she  were  thirty-five,  or  less.  After 
more  than  twenty  years  of  married  life,  she  ought 
to  have  lost  her  figure,  her  prettiness  and  most  cer- 
tainly her  vivacity.  Other  women  in  the  same  cir- 
cumstances looked  respectably  more*  than  their  age, 
and  it  was  Mrs.  Kirkwood's  Christian  duty  to  do  as 
other  women  did.  The  cloisters  and  the  town  as 
represented  by  feminine  opinion  never  said  these 
things  openly,  but  they  thought  them,  and  on  dis- 
creet occasions  even  hinted  them. 

Then  again,  Mrs.  Kirkwood  had  an  air- —  possi- 
bly due  in  part  to  that  suspicious  artistry  of  hers  — 
of  being  a  foreigner.  English  women  over  forty 
living  in  the  provinces  do  not -walk  about  the  town 
with  their  heads  in  the  air,  do  not  laugh  gayly  in 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         25 

public  places,  nor,  generally,  go  about  as  if  they 
thoroughly  enjoyed  life.  There  was  only  one  infer- 
ence possible;  she  did  these  things  to  attract  atten- 
tion; and,  almost  sinfully,  succeeded. 

Nevertheless,  Medboro',  however  grudgingly  and 
surreptitiously,  admired  Mrs.  Kirkwood. 

Her  own  family  had  certainly  set  the  town  a  good 
example.  Her  husband  and  her  two  daughters  had 
never  aspired  to  do  more  than  serve  as  a  chorus  to 
her.  From  the  beginning,,  little  Kirkwood  from 
the  days  of  his  astounding  engagement  and  his 
daughters  from  their  earliest  realizations  of  terres- 
trial values,  had  recognized  the  fact  that  she  was 
inimitable.  Any  attempt  to  copy  either  her  method 
or  her  manner  only  made  them  ridiculous.  She  had 
been  for  them  a  source  of  idolatry  rather  than  a 
model.  If  their  recognition  of  her  superiority  had 
been  less  marked,  they  might  have  loved  her  more 
truly. 

Even  her  son,  though  he  had  known  her  better 
than  the  others,  had  been  over  inclined  to  adoration; 
and  she  had  permitted  it.  There  had .  been  mo- 
ments when  she  had  longed  for  a  truer  intimacy  with 
him,  but  her  insatiable  temperament,  always  thirsty 
for  applause,  had  proved  too  strong  for  her.  She 
had  sometimes  consoled  herself  with  the  thought, 
that  destiny  in  setting  her  apart  from  life,  was  hold- 
ing some  greater  achievement  in  reserve.  Not  until 
she  was  forty-one  had  she  fallen  passionately,  hu- 
manly, in  love.  It  seemed  to  her,  then,  that  never 
before  had  she  met  her  superior.  .  .  . 

She  came  in,  now,  to  the  kitchen,  with  her  usual 
air  of  vivacious  interest  in  the  little  affairs  of  the 
family  God  had  lent  her. 

"  My  dears,  I  hope  you  haven't  waited  for  me," 
she  said.     "  Dr.  Threlfall  has  been  giving  me  an 


26         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

organ-lesson  in  the  Cathedral,  and  I  felt  so  splendid 
up  there  rolling  out  the  Missa  Brevis,  I  simply 
couldn't  come  away.  Though  of  course,  I  can't 
play  it  with  my  silly  hands."  She  looked  down  with 
a  serious  contempt  at  her  beautiful  hands,  so  bril- 
liant and  mobile  but  so  small  that  she  could  never 
properly  master  a  series  of  full  chords  on  the  octave. 
.  It's  about  ten  times  worse  on  the  organ  than  it  is 
on  the  piano,"  she  added. 

Her  eyes  were  bright  with  the  joy  of  living,  but 
she  had  mentioned  the  name  of  her  lover  without  the 
least  appearance  of  self-consciousness.  It  was  such 
evidences  as  these,  eagerly  watched  for  by  her  daugh- 
ters, that  still  inspired  them  with  the  hope  that  their 
incomprehensible  mother  was  safe  from  ultimate 
disaster. 

"  Oh !  I  wish  I'd  been,  there,"  Hilda  said,  eagerly. 
"  You  might  have  told  me,  mother.  I've  been  all 
alone  in  the  house  since  you  went  out." 

"  Yes,  and  who  would  have  got  tea  for  our  two 
men  and  Emily,"  her  mother  replied;  "  if  you'd 
been  attending  my  murder  of  Palestrina?  " 

"  I  could  easily  have  got  back  in  time  for  that," 
Hilda  said. 

"  I'll  take  my  next  lesson  when  it  isn't  Ada's  day 
out,"  Mrs.  Kirkwood  consoled  her.  "  Only  don't 
say  anything  about  it,  because,  it's  just  possible  the 
Dean  might  object  to  my  playing  the  Cathedral  or- 
gan. Well,  what's  the  news,  dears,  all  this  long 
time?"  She  looked  at  Stephen,  but  it  was  her 
husband  who  answered.  He  had  something  to  say, 
and  they  were  always  so  glad  when  they  could  feed 
her  with  anything  like  real  news. 

"  Mr.  Sercombe's  coming  up  to  see  me  about 
Stephen,"  he  said.  "  They've  fixed  it  up  between 
'em,  seemingly,  that  he's  not  to  be  an  author." 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         27 

Stephen  shook  his  head.  "  There  was  no  ques- 
tion of  fixing  it  up,  mother,"  he  submitted. 

The  firm  curves  of  Mrs.  Kirkwood's  mouth  lifted 
to  a  rather  quizzical  smile.  "  Stephen!"  she  ad- 
jured him;  "  admit  you're  trying  to  back  out!  " 

He  answered  her  smile  but  with  a  greater  gravity. 
"  Mr.  Sercombe  agrees  it's  no  good,"  he  said. 

"  You've  been  persuading  him,"  she  returned, 
"  pleading  with  those  serious  eyes  of  yours  to  be 
allowed  to  go  and  play  with  your  horrid  bricks 
and  mortar." 

"  Really,  I  haven't,  mother,"  Stephen  said.  "  Mr. 
Sercombe  said  if  he  came,  he'd  have  to  tell  father  the 
truth,  and  I  told  him  that  was  just  what  I  wanted 
him  to  do." 

His  mother  looked  as  if  she  hadn't  heard 
Stephen's  defense.  Her  dark  blue  eyes  were  still 
turned  towards  him  but  her  attention  was  withdrawn. 
It  was  as  if  her  expression  marked  her  place  in  the 
conversation  like  a  finger  thrust  into  a  book  she  was 
no  longer  reading. 

"  I  see,"  she  remarked  with  an  unnecessary  grav- 
ity, and  instantly  turned  to  her  husband  and  con- 
tinued. "  I  met  Arthur  in  the  Square.  He  and 
your  sister  are  coming  round  after  supper  —  to  talk 
or  something.     I  asked  him  to  bring  some  music." 

Little  Kirkwood  looked  a  trifle  disconcerted. 
11  To  talk?  "  he  said.     "  What  about?  " 

"  He  didn't  say,"  his  wife  replied.  She  and  her 
husband  were  watching  each  other  as  if  they  tried 
to  search  the  other's  defenses,  while  guarding  their 
own  safety. 

"  Was  Eleanor  with  him?  "  he  asked. 

"  No." 

"  But  he  said  she  was  coming?  To  talk?  Was 
that  exactly  what  he  said?" 


28  AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"  He  said,  I  believe,  that  he  and  Eleanor  might 
very  likely  look  in  after  supper  to-night,  and  that  she 
wanted  to  have  a  talk  with  you.  He  said  distinctly 
with  you;  and  he  looked  at  me  over  the  top  of  his 
gold  spectacles  to  see  how  I  should  take  it.  And  I 
said,  '  Oh,  do.  Bring  some  music,  won't  you?  '  He 
was  just  leaving  the  Bank." 

11  Aunt  Eleanor,"  Emily  began;  and  then  stopped. 
Her  mother  was  obviously  not  listening  She  was 
leaning  her  elbows  on  the  table  and  pressing  a  little 
slip  of  a  muslin  handkerchief  against  her  lips.  She 
looked  as  if  she  were  bracing  herself  to  some  great 
trial  of  the  spirit,  and  had  forgotten  the  presence 
of  the  four  other  people  about  her. 

The  shadow  they  so  persistently  avoided  was  sud- 
denly taking  a  visible  shape.  It  was  there  with 
them  in  the  room  as  an  acknowledged  presence. 
They  watched  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  hastily  at- 
tempted to  occupy  themselves.  They  were  confused 
and  nervous,  afraid  to  meet  each  other's  eyes,  lest 
any  sign  of  a  common  recognition  of  the  shadow 
might  add  one  tittle  of  evidence  against  her.  It 
seemed  to  them  that  if  once  their  fear  was  admitted 
and  shared,  it  would  become  a  reality  that  could 
never  again  be  denied. 

The  little  bookseller  noisily  pushed  back  his  chair 
and  stood  up.  "  Well,  I'm  sure  we'll  be  very  glad 
to  see  them,"  he  said.  "  We  haven't  been  over- 
burdened with  their  company  lately." 

His  wife  turned  her  eyes  towards  him  without 
changing  her  pose.  "  I  expect  Arthur  will  bring 
some  music,"  she  said  as  if  she  offered  some  conso- 
lation. 

For  the  moment  they  were  released.  The  two 
girls  also  stood  up  and  began  to  clear  away  the  tea 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         29 

things.     Mr.    Kirkwood    after    a    short   hesitation 
went  downstairs  to  the  shop. 

For  a  few  seconds  after  he  had  gone  Stephen  and 
his  mother  still  sat  opposite  to  one  another  at  the 
table.  The  girls  had  taken  a  tray  full  of  crockery 
into  the  combination  of  pantry  and  scullery  that 
led  out  of  the  kitchen.  As  they  left  the  room, 
Stephen  looked  up  at  his  mother  with  a  quick  glance 
of  enquiry,  and  for  an  instant  their  spirits  met  in  a 
perfect  understanding. 

"  Not  yet,  little  boy,  not  yet,"  she  said,  and  then 
breaking  the  liaison,  left  him  puzzled,  still,  but  a 
trifle  comforted. 

"  It's  no  business  of  Aunt  Eleanor's,  anyway,"  was 
the  thought  with  which  he  expressed  the  conviction 
of  the  family. 

But,  indeed,  it  was  the  business  of  the  whole  town 
of  Medboro'!  Mrs.  Kirkwood  had  compelled  its 
admiration  too  long,  and  already  a  relieved  sense  of 
reaction  was  flaming  about  the  streets  and  licking  at 
the  doors  of  great  houses  in  the  precincts. 

The  owners  of  Medboro'  had  made  many  allow- 
ances, but  when  it  came  to  using  the  Cathedral  as  a 
rendezvous  they  must  really  insist  on  the  thing  be- 
ing put  a  stop  to. 

She  was  up  there  alone  with  him  in  the  organ 
loft  of  the  Cathedral,  this  afternoon,  for  two  hours 
or  more,"  was  the  report  that  was  burning  up  the 
town's  last  trickle  of  championship  for  their  one 
artist. 

Every  one  knew. 

And  after  all  she  was  not  properly  speaking  a 
native  of  Medboro'.  Her  father,  Handel  Ed- 
wardes,  the  agnostic  sunken  now  to  the  indignities  of 
piano-tuning,  had  brought  her  to  the  town  when  she 


30         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

was  sixteen.     They  had  come  from  the  North,  orig- 
inally, Leeds  or  somewhere. 


Eleanor  Bell,  Andrew  Kirkwood's  sister,  was  a 
little,  anxious-eyed  woman  of  forty-five,  who  still 
retained  an  appearance  of  pinched  prettiness.  Her 
life  had  been  spent  in  responding  to  the  urgent  call 
of  convention.  As  a  church  worker  and  Sunday- 
School  teacher  before  her  marriage,  and  later  as 
the  wife  of  Arthur  Bell  and  the  mother  of  her  two 
daughters,  she  had  untiringly  modeled  herself  on  the 
pattern  proper  to  one  who  aspired  to  rank  one 
degree  higher  than  her  actual  status. 

Her  husband,  although  less  preoccupied  with  a 
single  ambition,  had  nevertheless  shared  her  aspira- 
tion. He  had  started  life  as  a  choir-boy,  and  had  in 
virtue  of  his  vocation,  received  a  free  education  at 
the  King's  School.  He  was,  now,  manager  of  the 
City  and  County,  perhaps  the  most  important  Bank 
in  Medboro',  and  was  counted  a  person  of  social  im- 
portance, admittedly  higher  than  that  of  the  average 
shopkeeper,  and  something  lower  than  that  of  the 
learned  professions. 

It  was  to  this  latter  level  that  Mrs.  Bell  aspired. 
She  longed  to  move  in  the  circle  of  these  doctors, 
solicitors,  and  minor  clergy,  whose  circle  in  its  turn 
cut  into  the  further,  finally  select  circle  of  the  Pre- 
cincts: with  the  Bishop's  wife,  Lady  Constance 
Olivier  at  its  ideal  center.  Mrs.  Bell's  movement 
towards  the  achievement  of  this  ambition  had  been 
noticeably  assisted  by  her  husband's  musical  ability. 
He  was  leader  of  the  celebrated  quartette  of  men's 
voices  which  included  as  its  incomparable  alto,  the 
person  of  plump  little  Adam  Neale,  managing  clerk 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         31 

for  Mr.  Folliett,  the  town's  chief  solicitor,  who  did 
all  the  cathedral  business  and  whose  grandfather 
had  been  Bishop  of  Medborough  from  1829  to 
1843.  Neale,  it  was  reported,  would  one  day  be 
taken  into  partnership  with  his  employer  who  had 
not  his  father's  ability,  and  so  another  step  on  the 
difficult  ladder  of  ascent  might  be  taken  by  Mr. 
Neale's  most  intimate  friends  the  Bells. 

And  now  Mrs.  Bell's  whole  future  was  being 
threatened  by  this  growing  rumor  of  scandal  about 
her  incomprehensible  sister-in-law.  "  Something 
ought  to  be  said  to  her,"  Mrs.  Bell  maintained  to  her 
husband,  but  she  continually  put  off  saying  it,  herself, 
because  she  lacked  the  moral  courage.  She  did  not 
for  a  moment  believe  that  Mrs.  Kirkwood  would 
do  anything  "actually  wrong";  women  in  Mrs. 
Bell's  circle  did  not  do  those  things;  but  all  these 
meetings  with  Dr.  Threlfall  gave  people  the  chance 
to  talk;  and  to  do  that  showed  a  terrible  incapacity 
to  appreciate  the  true  worth  of  life.  Mrs.  Bell,  in 
fact,  had  made  up  her  mind  to  "  say  something  "  to 
her  brother,  even  before  her  husband  brought  the 
report  of  the  desecration  of  the  Cathedral  on  that 
Friday  afternoon.  He  had  had  it,  after  his  meet- 
ing with  Mrs.  Kirkwood,  from  Adam  Neale. 

Mrs.  Bell  announced  her  disturbance  by  the  ab- 
stracted kiss  with  which  she  greeted  her  niece  Emily, 
when  she  opened  the  door.  It  was  a  kiss  intended  to 
mark  a  general  effect  of  disapproval  for  despite  her 
announced  intention  of  speaking  definitely  to  her 
brother,  she  still  hoped  that  a  general  effect  of  dis- 
approval might  be  enough  to  fulfill  her  purpose.  She 
never  made  "  scenes."  She  disliked  emotional  dis- 
plays of  any  kind,  and  her  method  of  persuading  her 
husband  when  he  proved  in  any  way  refractory  was 
the    method    of    quiet,    almost    sweet,    persistence. 


32         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

When  she  had  wanted  the  new  drawing-room  suite 
they  could  not  afford,  it  had  figured  in  her  conver- 
sation as  a  steady  undercurrent  for  eighteen  months. 
During  that  period  Arthur  Bell  could  count  with  ab- 
solute certainty  on  his  wife's  apology  for  their  pres- 
ent furniture,  whenever  they  had  a  visitor. 

On  this  occasion,  she  had  made  some  preparation 
for  the  staging  of  her  effect  by  requesting  her  hus- 
band not  to  bring  any  music.  She  saw  that  omission 
as  signifying  a  certain  formality;  and  her  ideas  of  the 
evening's  occupation  was  a  discreet  conversation, — 
relating  chiefly  to  their  own  position  in  the  town  — 
into  which  she  saw  opportunities  of  introducing  a 
series  of  hints  with  reference  to  the  reprehensibility 
of  getting  "  talked  about." 

Her  entrance  admirably  set  the  note  of  her  inten- 
tion. She  came  into  her  sister-in-law's  sitting-room 
with  an  air  of  restrained  sadness,  sat  rather  apart 
from  the  others  when  she  had  conceded  the  usual 
formalities  of  greeting,  and  took  no  part  in  the  open- 
ing conversation. 

Stephen  was  upstairs  doing  his  home-work  —  ex- 
aminations were  to  begin  the  week  after  next  — 
and  Mr.  Kirkwood  found  a  preliminary  topic  in  a 
rediscussion  of  his  son's  career. 

Arthur  Bell  listened  sympathetically,  but  ex- 
pressed the  opinion  that  Stephen  could  not  do  better 
than  go  into  the  office  of  James  Dickinson. 

"  He's  probably  the  richest  man  in  the  town," 
Bell  said,  "with  the  exception  of  Mr.  Spentwater." 
His  profession  had  rrfade  him  a  trifle  too  apt  to  judge 
a  man  by  the  quality  of  his  balance  and  investments. 

Mrs.  Bell  saw  her*  first  opportunity  at  this  point. 

11  He  might  have  been  Mayor,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  his  wife's  failing,"  she  put  in. 

Her  husband  looked  a  trifle  uncomfortable.     His 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         33 

long  practice  of  absolute  discretion  with  regard  to 
his  depositors'  affairs  had  induced  a  habit  of  dis- 
taste for  anything  approaching  public  scandal.  He 
slightly  adjusted  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles  and 
frowned  absent-mindedly  at  the  piano. 

11  Drinks,  doesn't  she?  "  remarked  Cecilia. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  music-stool,  wearing  an 
almost  girlish  dress  of  sprigged  muslin.  Her  de- 
meanor since  the  entrance  of  her  husband's  relations, 
had  been,  however,  anything  but  girlish.  She  had 
hardly  spoken  since  they  came,  and  her  whole  air  was 
that  of  one  primed  to  resent  the  least  allusion  to  her 
recent  conduct. 

"Oh!  well,  well,"  the  bank-manager  answered, 
"  we  can't  say  that  for  certain.  Some  people  have 
insinuated  that  —  er  —  well  —  that  there  was  some 
kind  of  trouble." 

11  People  will,  you  know,  if  you  give  them  the  least 
chance,"  Mrs.  Bell  said  demurely. 

"  Nothing  else  to  talk  about,"  Cecilia  commented. 

"  So  very  unfortunate  in  every  way,"  Mrs.  Bell 
remarked  rather  allusively. 

Cecelia  stared  at  her  sister-in-law  for  one  moment 
as  if  she  dared  her  to  say  another  word,  and  then 
turned  to  Bell  and  asked  him  why  he  had  not  after 
all,  brought  any  music. 

He  excused  himself  cm  the  grounds  of  being  rather 
tired. 

"  Too  tired  for  music,  but  not  too  tired  to  come 
all  the  way  up  here  and  spend  the  evening.  .  .  ." 
Cecilia's  tone  indicated  that  her  sentence  was  incom- 
plete, and  they  waited  a  moment  in  embarrassed 
silence,  for  her  to  fill  in  the  description  of  how  the 
evening  was  to  be  spent.  The  rising  inflection  of 
her  voice  foreshadowed  the  coming  of  resentment  — 
perhaps  against  the  boredom  of  futile  conversation 


34         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

indirectly  designed  to  warn  her  back  to  the  comforta- 
ble ways  of  propriety. 

But  she  added  nothing  to  her  indictment.  She 
sat  poised  on  the  music-stool,  gripping  the  seat  of  it 
with  her  hands,  and  staring  across  the  room  with 
a  look  of  set  determination  at  the  mirror  over  the 
fireplace. 

Mrs.  Bell  coughed  gently.  "  We  felt  that  we  had 
been  rather  neglecting  you,  lately,"  she  said  on  a 
note  of  conciliation;  '  and  as  Arthur  had  seen  you 
this  afternoon  and  made  the  appointment,  I  thought 
we  had  better  keep  to  it,  even  if  he  was  a  little 
tired.,, 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure.  Very  kind,"  murmured 
Mr.  Kirkwood. 

"  All  the  same  if  you'd  play  us  something,  Cicely," 
Bell  added  nervously.  He  felt,  as  indeed  they  all 
did,  that  in  Mrs.  Kirkwood's  present  mood,  an  un- 
fortunate outburst  might  occur  at  any  minute. 
"  My  not  bringing  any  music,"  he  went  on  more 
bravely,  "  was  after  all,  you  know,  nothing  more 
than  an  intimation  that  I  didn't  feel  up  to  doing  any- 
thing particularly,  myself;  I'll  admit  that  nothing 
rests  me  more  than  listening  to  really  good  music." 

"  It  would  be  so  nice  if  you  would  play  us  some- 
thing," his  wife  concurred.  Surely  the  moral  effect 
of  this  visit,  she  consoled  herself,  would  do  some 
good. 

Cecelia  seemed  to  disengage  her  thoughts  from 
the  mirror  by  a  strong  effort.  "  What  would  you 
like?"  she  asked  her  sister-in-law. 

Mrs.  Bell  blushed  and  looked  at  her  husband. 
Her  own  taste  in  music  was,  she  knew,  a  little  com- 
mon. The  only  composers  she  could  remember  just 
them  were  Mozart  and  Strauss,  and  she  was  not 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         35 

quite   sure  whether  either  of  them  would  be  the 

right  "  person  to  ask  for. 

"  No,  I  asked  you,  Eleanor,"  Cecilia  prompted 
her  mischievously,  before  Bell  could  reply.  "  Your 
choice  is  much  more  likely  to  suit  Andrew  and  the 
girls ;  Stephen  is  the  only  one  of  our  family  who  can 
tell  Bach  from  Beethoven." 

Mrs.  Bell  simpered.  "  A  little  Strauss,  perhaps," 
she  suggested  gently. 

Cecilia  nodded,  turned  round  to  the  piano  and 
flung  herself  into  a  brilliant  execution  of  one  of 
Dvorak's  dances. 

Bell  pulled  himself  together  with  a  little  start  as 
she  began,  and  then  frowned  gravely  at  his  wife. 
He  did  not  wish  her  to  be  trapped  into  making  a  fool 
of  herself,  and  he  knew  that  she  was  quite  capable  of 
taking  Dvorak  for  Strauss.  He  thought  Cecilia's 
trick  in  very  bad  taste. 

Mrs.  Bell  imagined  that  the  frown  was  meant  to 
convey  disapproval  of  her  choice  of  composer,  and 
the  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulders  with  which  she  an- 
swered her  husband  left  him  still  uneasy  as  to  the 
state  of  her  understanding.  He  determined  to  ex- 
pose the  fraud,  himself,  the  moment  Cecilia  paused, 
but  she  saved  him  the  necessity.  The  instant  she 
had  finished,  she  swung  round  on  the  stool  and  apolo- 
gized to  her  sister-in-law. 

"  Sorry,  Eleanor,"  she  said,  u  but  I  didn't  feel  in 
the  mood  for  Strauss." 

Mrs.  Bell  rose  to  the  occasion.  She  may  perhaps 
have  been  perplexed  by  so  unusual  a  version  of  the 
waltz  she  had  been  expecting  and  although  she  would 
probably  not  have  had  the  courage  to  venture  the 
opinion  that  Dvorak  was  not  Strauss,  she  was  at  least 
prepared. 


36         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"  What  you  gave  us  was  quite  delightful,"  she 
murmured. 

"  That  particular  dance  of  Dvorak's,  isn't  often 
played,"  Bell  commented  quickly. 

"  Too  rebellious,"  Cecilia  replied  at  once. 
11  That  was  why  I  played  it,  to-night." 

She  got  up  from  the  music-stool,  walked  quickly 
over  to  the  fireplace  and  remained  standing  there, 
leaning  one  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece  as  she  con- 
tinued. 

"  Have  you  ever  felt  rebellious,  Eleanor?  " 

"  I  suppose  every  one  does,  at  times,"  Mrs.  Bell 
said.  "  It's  just  one  of  those  feelings  one  has  to 
suppress." 

"Why?"  Cecilia  asked  sharply. 

Mrs.  Bell  bowed  her  head  a  little,  as  if  she  were 
humbly  interpreting  some  splendid  religious  prin- 
ciple. "  I'm  afraid  the  world  would  be  a  dreadful 
place  to  live  in,  if  we  didn't,"  she  said. 

M  But  what  I  can't  understand,"  Cecilia  returned, 
disregarding  that  answer,  "  is  why,  at  least,  we  can't 
be  honest." 

Mr.  Bell  coughed.  No  one,  he  believed,  could 
impeach  his  honesty. 

Why,  for  instance,"  Cecilia  went  on,  with  an  im- 
patient gesture,  "  should  you  and  Arthur  pretend 
that  you  didn't  come  here  to-night  to  —  to  tell  me  — 
or  Andrew  —  that  I  must  really  behave  myself  in 
future?  Obviously  you  did.  Why  make  all  kinds 
of  excuses  and  evasions  and  hint  things  instead  of 
saying  them?  Is  it  because  you're  afraid,  or  be- 
cause you  don't  really  believe  I'm  doing  any  harm 
by  seeing  Dr.  Threlfall  so  often?  " 

Mrs.  Bell  contented  herself  by  looking  at  once 
shocked  and  demure. 

Her  husband  displayed  more  courage.     He  had 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         37 

often  had  more  difficult  situations  than  this  to  handle 
in  his  management  of  the  Bank's  affairs.  He 
slightly  adjusted  his  glasses,  looked  firmly  at  his  an- 
tagonist, and  assumed  the  inflexible  sternness  he  wore 
when  refusing  an  overdraft. 

11  As  you've  opened  the  subject,  Cicely,"  he  said 
gravely,  "  I  am  glad  to  take  this  opportunity  to  say 
that  Eleanor  and  I  think  you  are  being  very  ill- 
advised  in  seeing  so  much  of  Dr.  Threlfall.  We 
are,  of  course,  convinced  that  your  intentions  are  per- 
fectly innocent,  but  you  give  the  town  an  opportu- 
nity to  gossip  —  which  is  a  very  great  pity." 

I  suppose  you've  heard  about  this  afternoon?  " 
Cecilia  replied  quietly. 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  Bell  said.  "  After  I  had  met  you, 
however,  I  consider  that  —  incident,  deplorable,  in 
every  way.  The  Dean  will  certainly  be  extremely 
vexed  if  he  hears  of  it." 

11  And  supposing,"  Cecilia  said,  with  a  great  calm- 
ness, "  supposing  that  my,  our,  intentions  were  not 
perfectly  innocent?  " 

Up  to  that  moment,  her  own  family  had  been 
content,  as  always,  to  act  as  a  kind  of  almost  mute 
chorus  to  her  star  performance.  When  there  were 
visitors  to  be  entertained,  the  two  girls  waited  on 
their  mother's  mood  and  if  she  were  inclined  to  talk 
they  sat  in  silence.  They  knew  that  they  could  not 
compete  with  her.  But,  now,  in  a  sentence  she  had 
dangerously  strained  an  allegiance  that  for  the 
past  few  months  had  been  very  hardly  tried. 

It  was  Emily  who  answered  that  daring  challenge 
of  Cecilia's. 

"  Mother!  How  can  you  say  such  things?  "  she 
said,  in  her  even,  sedate  way. 

"Are  you  afraid  it  might  be  true,  Emily?" 
Cecilia  asked,  turning  her  head  a  little  to  look  down 


38         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

at  her  two  daughters,  tucked  together  into  the  sofa 
set  across  the  corner  by  the  fireplace. 

"  No,  of  course  not,  mother,"  Emily  returned. 

Cecilia  straightened  herself;  standing,  now,  erect 
on  the  hearthrug  as  if  she  were  on  a  platform,  about 
to  sing  as  she  commonly  did  with  no  score  in  her 
hands.  They  watched  her,  then,  with  an  increas- 
ing fear  that  she  might  be  going  to  make  some 
scandalous  announcement.  She  so  dominated  them. 
She  held  them  in  expectancy,  as  she  sometimes  held 
her  audiences;  so  sure  of  her  own  power  not  only  to 
please  but  even  to  compel  her  hearers  to  like  just 
what  she  chose  to  give  them. 

When  at  last  she  spoke,  she  looked  over  their 
heads.  "  I  will  not  be  interfered  with,"  she  said 
in  a  clear  steady  voice.  "  So  please  make  up  your 
minds  to  that  —  all  of  you.  I  can't  help  your  criti- 
cizing me  or  talking  about  me,  but  you  must  keep  it 
to  yourselves.  I  shall  go  my  own  way  whatever  you 
say  or  think."  She  paused  before  she  added  in  the 
same  tone.  "  And  now,  I'm  going  to  bed.  I  don't 
feel  in  the  mood  for  music  or  conversation  to-night. 
Good-night,  Arthur.  Good-night,  Eleanor.  It  was 
good  of  you  to  come  up." 

She  did  not  offer  to  shake  hands  with  them.  She 
left  the  room  with  a  little  flutter  of  haste  as  if  she 
dared  trust  herself  no  further. 

"  You  ought  to  use  your  authority,  Andrew,"  his 
sister  said  as  soon  as  the  door  was  closed. 

Little  Kirkwood's  hands  were  trembling  visibly. 

"Authority,  Eleanor?"  he  quavered.  "You 
ought  to  know  well  enough  that  I've  never  had  any 
authority  over  her." 

He  had  apparently  no  shame  in  making  that  state- 
ment in  the  hearing  of  his  two  daughters. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         39 

"  You  simply  can't  say  anything  of  that  sort  to 
mother,  Aunt,"  Emily  agreed. 

"  I  don't  believe  the  Bishop,  himself,  could," 
added  Hilda. 

With  a  common  movement,  the  father  and  his  two 
daughters  were  drawing  together  to  defend  her. 
The  secret  was  still  safe.  She  had  only  been  threat- 
ening them.  There  was  still  a  hope  that  she  would 
not  finally  betray  them  all. 

Now  that  Cicely  was  gone,  Mrs.  Bell  found  her 
voice.  But  all  her  scolding  and  indeed  all  the  rest 
of  that  evening's  conversation  in  the  bookseller's 
sitting-room,  was  no  more  than  an  embroidery  of  the 
original  theme. 

Mrs.  Bell  thought  it  so  "  unwise  "  to  give  the  gos- 
sips of  the  town      the  least  opportunity." 

"  In  any  case,  she  must  understand  that  the  Cathe- 
dral is  sacred,"  was  her  husband's  chief  contribu- 
tion. 

"  But,  uncle  Arthur,  she  is  really  having  organ 
lessons,"  was  Emily's  confession  of  a  renewed  fealty. 

Uncle  Arthur  set  his  lips  sternly.  "  You  see,  An- 
drew," he  said,  disregarding  his  niece,  "  the  point  is 
that  the  organ  was  hardly  played  at  all.  Simpson, 
the  verger,  told  Adam  Neale." 


Cecilia  did  not  go  to  bed  when  she  fled  the  com- 
pany of  the  repulsed  evangelists,  she  went  straight 
up  to  Stephen's  room  at  the  top  of  the  house.  He 
was  reading  in  the  accepted  school-boy  attitude,  with 
his  elbows  on  the  table  and  his  hands  over  his  ears ; 
and  he  looked  up  with  an  expression  that  boasted  his 
diligence  when  his  mother  came  in. 


4o         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"  I  say,  mother,  you  don't  want  me  to  come 
down?  "  he  said. 

Cecilia  shook  her  head. 

"They  haven't  gone,  have  they?"  he  asked  in 
surprise,  and  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Why  they 
haven't  been  here  much  over  half-an-hour." 

"  They  haven't  gone,"  Cecilia  replied,  shutting  the 
door.  I've  left  them  to  gossip.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you,  Stephen.     Put  your  book  away." 

He  marked  his  place  with  a  slip  of  paper  and  obe- 
diently closed  his  book. 

"  About  my  going  to  Mr.  Dickinson's?  "  he  asked, 
mechanically. 

Something  in  the  manner  of  her  coming  had 
already  warned  him  that  this  visit  to  him  had  been 
made  for  some  more  intense  purpose  than  the  dis- 
cussion of  his  profession.  Outwardly  she  appeared 
calm  and  collected,  but  some  emotion  seemed  to 
radiate  from  her.  His  little  room  had  been  trans- 
formed by  her  presence  from  a  school-boy's  study 
to  the  stage  of  a  dramatic  encounter. 

She  may  have  been  aware  of  some  necessity  for 
making  this  change;  or  it  may  only  have  been  her 
natural  need  for  facing  the  light  that  induced  her 
before  she  began  to  talk  to  him  to  remove  the  green 
shade  he  had  made  for  his  little  round-wicked 
"  opaline  "  china  lamp. 

She  took  no  notice  of  his  question.  "  Now  I  can 
see  you,"  she  said,  but  it  was  more  probable  that  she 
had  wanted  him  to  be  able  to  see  her. 

"What  is  it,  mother?  "  he  asked,  with  a  hint  of 
trepidation  in  his  voice. 

She  had  seated  herself  on  his  bed,  in  much  the 
same  attitude  in  which  she  had  posed  iherself  on  the 
music-stool;  her  body  very  upright,  her  arms  hang- 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         41 

ing  straight  down  with  an  effect  of  tensity.  But, 
now,  her  preoccupied  gaze  at  the  mirror  had  given 
place  to  an  earnest,  searching  enquiry  of  her  son's 
face. 

11  I  must  tell  some  one,  Stephen,"  she  said;  "  and 
there's  only  you.  Will  you  be  very  patient  with 
me?" 

"  Is  it  —  is  it  about  —  Dr.  Threlfall?  "  he  asked 
timidly. 

"  Oh !  but  there  are  reams  and  reams  before  that, 
if  you  are  ever  to  understand  in  the  very  least,"  she 
said.  "  Take  it  as  a  story,  my  dear;  a  long  one,  but 
you  ought  to  know  it,  because  you  are  another  chap- 
ter, yourself.  Perhaps  you'll  be  the  most  important 
chapter,  but  all  the  same  my  own  little  adventure 
isn't  finished  yet." 

Her  dark  blue  eyes  were  watching  the  attentive 
eyes  of  her  son,  so  like  her  own,  yet  with  that  inde- 
finable difference  that  stamped  them  as  essentially 
masculine. 

"  If  you'd  been  a  daughter,  Stephen,"  she  said, 
breaking  off  her  prologue,  and  then  anticipating  his 
answer  she  pursed  her  mouth  and  shook  her  head. 
"  No,  no,  not  like  Emily  and  Hilda,"  she  exclaimed. 
11  They're  Kirkwoods,  they're  nearly  all  Kirkwood. 
They  accept.  They  submit.  They've  accepted  me, 
just  as  your  father  did.  They  don't  understand  me ; 
they've  hung  me  up  on  the  wall  like  an  ikon  —  you 
know  those  religious  pictures  the  Russians  have  — 
something  to  be  admired  and  reverenced  and  won- 
dered at.  And,  now,  I'm  going  to  fall  down  with 
a  bang  and  there'll  be  a  mess  of  broken  glass, 
that  they'll  have  to  pick  up  and  clear  away  very 
carefully  for  fear  of  cutting  themselves.  You 
know  that's  what  they'll  do,  don't  you,  dear?     And 


42         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

the  silly  old  picture  will  have  to  be  shut  away  in  a 
dark  cupboard  somewhere ;  and  it  will  get  more  and 
more  like  a  skeleton  every  day." 

"  But,  mother,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you're 
going  to  .  .  .  ?  "  Stephen  interrupted. 

"  Oh !  the  story,  the  story,  first,  little  boy,"  she 
said.  "  I  can't  answer  any  questions  till  I've  told 
you  that." 

Her  tone  was  becoming  more  confident.  She  had 
"  got  her  audience  "  as  she  was  wont  to  boast;  and 
she  had  no  doubt  of  her  own  powers  as  a  raconteuse. 
She  had  told  stories  from  the  stage,  before  now,  to 
fill  a  gap ;  and  people  had  told  her  that  that  was  her 
true  metier.  But  up  to  this  time,  she  had  been 
faithful  to  her  first  love  —  to  music,  although  no 
one  knew  better  than  she  that  she  could  never  reach 
any  height  of  achievement,  either  as  a  singer  or  a 
pianist.  She  often  referred  to  herself  as  a  third- 
rate  professional." 

"  But,  mother.  .  .  ."  Stephen  still  protested.  He 
felt  that  he  could  not  listen  to  any  "  story  "  until  he 
knew  the  truth  she  had,  now,  so  definitely  threatened. 

She  knew  better  than  that.  She  meant  to  fling 
her  enchantment  over  him,  the  magic  of  her  person- 
ality. "  You  can't  understand  till  you  know  every- 
thing, dear,"  she  pleaded.  "  And  I  want  you  to  un- 
derstand. You  must  understand.  You're  the  only 
one  who  can,  and  I  want  to  keep  you." 

Stephen  looked  down  and  began  to  fidget  with  the 
cover  of  his  Trigonometry.  "  Very  well,  mother, 
go  on,"  he  said.  Nothing  but  the  detail  was  lack- 
ing, after  all.  He  could  no  longer  doubt  that  the 
dreaded  disaster  was,  now,  imminent.  In  his  heart 
he  was  cursing  the  image  of  Dr.  Threlfall. 

She  played  with  his  attention  by  keeping  him  wait- 
ing for  still  another  minute  before  she  began.     It 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         43 

was  by  such  tricks  as  these  that  she  tested  the  quality 
of  her  own  power.  She  liked,  as  she  put  it,  "  to 
make  it  harder  "  for  herself;  certainly  when  she  was 
perfectly  sure  of  winning.  She  never  attempted  to 
play  a  losing  game. 

"  I  can't  go  as  far  back  as  I  should  like  to,"  was 
her  opening,  "  because  I  don't  know  who  our  ances- 
tors were  earlier  than  the  end  of  the  18th  century. 
But  my  great  grandfather,  Stephen,  was  a  baker  who 
had  a  shop  on  Holborn  Hill,  and  he  was  nearly 
hanged  by  the  crowd  in  the  Gordon  Riots.  The 
story  is  that  he  tried  to  stop  them  from  burning 
Newgate  Prison.  Have  you  ever  read  '  Barnaby 
Rudge'?" 

Stephen  nodded. 

"  Don't  look  so  puzzled,  little  boy,"  she  said.  "  I 
only  want  you  to  know  that  your  great-great-grand- 
father must  have  been  a  very  brave  little  man.  And 
so  was  his  son,  my  grandfather.  He  was  a  Chartist, 
and  went  to  prison  for  his  opinions  —  at  Liverpool, 
I  think.  And  then  there's  my  father.  He  was  the 
organist  of  St.  Barnabas'  Church  in  Leeds,  you  know, 
and  he  had  a  lot  of  pupils  and  we  were  quite  com- 
fortably off.  And  then  he  found  that  he  didn't  be- 
lieve in  religion,  and  gave  up  his  position  as  organist 
and  lost  most  of  his  pupils,  because  he  wouldn't  pre- 
tend; and  we  came  here  and  were  dreadfully  poor. 
That  was  when  I  was  sixteen. 

"  You  see  I  want  you  to  know  just  that  much  of 
your  mother's  family  history,  dear;  so  that  you  may 
understand  that  I  come  of  a  rebellious  family.  And 
I  was  a  rebel,  too;  when  I  married  your  father. 
My  father  was  tremendously  against  it;  oh!  passion- 
ately —  he  used  to  be  very  passionate  in  those  days 
—  it's  twenty-two  years  ago,  now.  And,  Stephen, 
it's  a  dreadful  confession,  but  it  has  to  come,  I  should 


44         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

never  have  married  your  father  if  my  father  hadn't 
been  so  set  against  it.  He  warned  me.  He  told  me 
I  should  never  be  happy.  He  explained  exactly  how 
I  should  feel  in  a  few  years'  time.  And  the  more 
he  argued  with  me,  the  more  rebellious  I  got.  It's 
in  my  blood,  I  suppose.  And,  Stephen,  for  twenty- 
one  years,  I  have  really  kept  going  on  my  rebellion 
against  my  father's  opinion.  I  was  so  determined 
to  prove  that  he  was  wrong  and  I  was  right,  although 
I've  known  for  twenty  years  that  it  was  the  other 
way  round.  Have  you  got  enough  of  me  in  you, 
to  understand  that?  " 

Stephen  was  gnawing  the  end  of  a  pencil.  "  Do 
you  mean  to  say,  mother,  that  you've  always  been  un- 
happy since  you  married  father?  "  he  asked. 

'  Heavens,  no,  child,"  she  flung  at  him.  "  I 
couldn't  live  if  I  couldn't  find  happiness  for  myself, 
somehow.  But  I  have  never  been  satisfied,  and  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  my  pride  in  proving  myself  right, 
I  might  have,"  she  threw  up  her  hands  with  a  sud- 
den gesture  of  abandonment,  "  oh,  I  should  surely 
have  tossed  my  bonnet  over  some  windmill  or  other 
before  this.  You  see  it  was  only  father  that  counted. 
His  was  the  only  opinion  that  mattered  to  me  in  all 
Medboro'.  He  and  I  were  so  different  from  all  the 
others,  that  they've  always  seemed  to  me  nothing 
more  than  an  audience. 

"Have  you  told  grandfather,  now?"  Stephen 
put  in. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  You're  the  first,  dear," 
she  said. 

"  But  you  haven't  told  me,  yet,"  Stephen  expos- 
tulated. His  voice  trembled  a  little.  He  was  sev- 
enteen and  he  stood  a  good  chance  of  taking  the  form 
prize  in  the  lower  sixth  this  term.     But  he  had  a  hor- 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         45 

rible  premonition  that  he  would  not  get  through  this 
confession  without  crying. 

14  I'm  telling  you,  now,"  she  returned  with  a  little 
jerk  of  impatience,  and  she  got  up  from  the  bed  and 
began  to  pace  the  very  narrow  limits  of  Stephen's 
bedroom.  "  Only,  I  can  never,  never  explain  to 
you,"  she  went  on  suddenly,  facing  round  and  con- 
fronting him  —  "  not  while  you  sit  there  as  gloomy 
as  a  rock.  It's  sympathy  I'm  asking  you  for,  little 
son,  sympathy  and  understanding." 

She  frowned  at  him  as  if  she  were  meeting  some  in- 
comprehensible opposition,  and  was  uncertain  how  to 
pitch  her  note. 

"  Do  you  think  that  you  know  anything  whatever 
about  me,  dear?  "  she  asked. 

He  could  find  no  answer  to  that  question.  He 
was  not  sure  that  he  did  know  anything  of  this  new 
mother  of  his,  who  had  come  to  life  in  the  last  few 
months.  With  all  his  adoration  of  her,  he  had  still 
taken  her  so  much  for  granted.  Unconsciously,  he 
had  placed  her,  broadly,  in  the  category  of  mother- 
hood. She  was  different,  admittedly,  from  all  other 
mothers,  but,  he  had  assumed  nevertheless,  that  all 
mothers  were  in  some  way  alike.  Now,  with  this 
new  and  calamitous  revelation  hanging  over  him,  he 
had  to  amend  his  generalization.  It  seemed  that  she 
was  less  a  mother  than  a  distinctly  perplexing  young 
woman. 

"  Nothing  at  all?  "  she  prompted  him. 

"I  —  I  thought  I  did,  until  lately,"  he  said. 

"  Are  you  jealous,  Stephen?  "  she  asked. 

He  propped  his  face  in  his  hands  and  stared  down 
at  the  tablecloth.  "  No,"  he  mumbled,  "  that  would 
be  idiotic.     I  just  hate  Dr.  Threlfall,  that's  all." 

She  drew  a  deep  breath  and  threw  back  her  head. 


46         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

For  a  moment  she  seemed  to  admit  defeat,  then  she 
began  to  talk  rapidly  as  if  she  would  make  him  for- 
get what  he  had  said.  "  I'm  like  those  plants  that 
turn  towards  the  light,"  she  began.  "  I  must  have 
light  and  air  and  freedom.  And  I  had  them  in  a 
way,  or  thought  I  had  until  he  came  here  last  Feb- 
ruary. You  see  you  don't  know  him,  Stephen.  I 
want  you  to  know  him,  well.  You  shall,  you  must. 
He's  so  big.  He  understands  —  all  sorts  of  things 
—  not  only  music.  He's  creative.  He  —  oh !  hear- 
ing and  seeing  him  has  made  me  realize  that  I  was 
shut  into  a  dark  little  stuffy  room.  I  must  get  out, 
now.  Everything  has  altered.  I've  seen  it  all  for 
the  first  time  as  what  it  is.  This  town,  these  people, 
the  whole  atmosphere  of  the  place." 

"Then  you're  going  right  away?"  Stephen  in- 
terrupted her,  with  the  sound  of  dismay  in  his  voice. 

This  was  the  crucial  question  she  had  tried  to 
postpone  until  such  time  as  she  had  won  his  sym- 
pathy. But  that  task  was  proving  unexpectedly 
difficult.  She  had  spoken  only  of  herself  and  she 
was  beginning  to  understand  that  the  time  had  come 
for  her  to  make  concessions  to  him.  He,  also,  had 
a  point  of  view,  and  she  had  too  lightly  overlooked 
the  necessity  for  deferring  to  it. 

She  came  back  to  the  bed,  and  sat  down  again,  so 
near  to  him  that  she  could  touch  him  by  leaning 
forward. 

"  Does  my  going  away  seem  —  the  end  of  every- 
thing, Stephen?"  she  asked  gently.  "Tell  me, 
dear,  I've  been  rather  up  in  the  clouds  lately." 

"  Is  it  —  is  it  absolutely  necessary  —  for  you,  to 
go  away?  "  he  said. 

"  Absolutely  necessary —  for  a  hundred  reasons," 
she  replied,  in  a  low  voice.  She  was  prepared  to 
be  humble,  now. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         47 

"  But,  mother;  it  seems  so  —  so  awful,"  he  pro- 
tested. 

"Does  it?  To  you?  Yes,  I  daresay  it  does," 
she  admitted.  "  But  we  have  only  one  life,  Stephen, 
and  I've  done  my  duty  for  twenty-two  years;  given 
all  my  best  time  to  you  and  Andrew  and  the  girls." 

He  did  not  weigh  that  statement  against  the 
earlier  boast  that  her  rectitude  had  been  largely 
upheld  by  her  determination  to  justify  herself  for 
having  married  Andrew  Kirkwood  in  the  first  in- 
stance,—  possibly  both  accounts  were  equally  true. 
He  was  too  much  occupied  just  then  by  the  prac- 
tical aspects  of  the  problem. 

"  It'll  be  awful  for  us,"  he  said. 

"  Will  it  ?  Why  should  it  be  ?  "  she  asked.  She 
had  had  some  glimmering  of  this  complication,  but 
had  resolutely  put  it  away  from  her. 

"  Oh !  well,  all  the  talk  and  everything,"  he  ex- 
plained. 

11  Of  course,  they'll  talk,  but  they  do,  now,"  she 
commented.  "  Will  it  be  so  very  much  worse,  after- 
wards? " 

11  Bound  to  be,  isn't  it?  "  he  replied. 

"  Couldn't  you  bear  it,  for  my  sake?  "  she  asked. 

He  shuddered.  "  Oh,  mother,  must  you?"  he 
said. 

They  were  near  the  equality  she  had  sometimes 
desired,  but  now,  she  was  afraid  of  it.  On  this  level, 
she  could  find  no  justification  for  rebellion.  He  was 
asking  her  for  self-sacrifice,  and  she  dared  not  meet 
that  demand  frankly.  If  this  desire  of  hers  was  to 
be  judged  ethically,  she  would,  she  knew,  have  no 
case. 

"  I  must,  I  must,  Stephen,"  she  replied,  rising 
again  to  her  pedestal.  "  I  have  given  more  than 
twenty  years  of  sacrifice,  now  it's  your  turn.     Be 


48         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

just  to  me,  at  least.  Aren't  you  willing  to  give  any- 
thing? I  don't  say  anything  about  the  others. 
They  must  take  their  chances.  But  you  —  won't  you 
try  to  forgive  me  and  go  on  loving  me?  After  all 
these  ages  of  darkness,  won't  you  let  me  have  a 
little  light  and  happiness  before  I'm  an  old  woman? 
We  sha'n't  be  separated  altogether,  little  boy.  You 
can  come  to  stay  with  us  in  London.  That's  why  I 
wanted  you  to  be  an  author.  I  thought  you  would 
come  to  live  near  us,  then.  Couldn't  you?  Even 
now?" 

11  No,  I  couldn't  do  that,"  he  said.  "  It's  no  use 
my  trying  to  write,  because  I  haven't  got  it  in  me. 
And  —  I  don't  think  I  want  to  meet  Dr.  Threlfall 
again,  ever." 

"  But,  Stephen,  you  don't  know  him,"  she  pro- 
tested. 

Stephen  looked  obstinate.  "  I  don't  want  to, 
either,"  he  said. 

"Oh!  you're  a  Kirkwood,  I  suppose,  after  all," 
she  flared  out,  suddenly.  "  I  thought  you'd  under- 
stand, but  evidently  you  can't.  You're  just  as  self- 
ish as  the  others.  You  can  only  think  of  what  effect 
it  will  have  upon  you.  You  won't  think  of  me,  any 
of  you.  Just  as  long  as  I  make  love  to  you,  you'll  be 
adoring  and  all  the  rest  of  it  —  proud  of  me,  aren't 
you,  in  a  way?  But  when  I  really  want  your  sym- 
pathy. .  .  ."  Her  voice  broke  in  a  wave  of  self- 
compassion. 

She  was  getting  up,  when  Stephen  threw  himself  at 
her  feet  and  held  her.  "  It  isn't  that,  mother,  it 
isn't  that,"  he  gasped.  "  But  I  hate  him  for  taking 
you  away.     I  do,  I  hate  him." 

And  with  that  burst  of  expression,  the  tears  he  had 
been  dreading  so  long,  came  with  a  rush,  and  he  was 
no  longer  ashamed  of  them. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         49 

"  Don't  go  away,  yet,  mother,"  he  besought  her. 
11  Not  yet,  not  for  a  month  or  two.  Promise  me 
that." 

She  held  him  close  to  her  and  promised.  She  was 
so  moved  by  his  outburst,  that  just  then  she  was 
willing  to  admit  herself  defeated;  almost  ready  to 
promise  him  that  she  would  not  go  at  all. 


Stephen  was  almost  asleep  when  a  memory  re- 
curred to  him.  For  more  than  six  hours  he  had 
forgotten  the  smile  with  which  little  Margaret 
Weatherley  had  so  surprisingly  honored  him  that 
day.  Now,  the  thought  of  it  came  back  to  him  as  a 
new  hope  in  this  drowning  world  of  his.  No  doubt 
she  had  meant  nothing  by  her  childish  encourage- 
ment; she  was  hopelessly  far  above  him  in  the  social 
scale;  but  her  approval  had  been  very  sweet,  and 
vaguely  he  was  aware  of  it  as  promising  some  kind 
of  exchange. 

Stephen  had  this  at  least  of  his  mother  in  him;  he 
instinctively  turned  towards  the  light. 


II 


STEPHEN  found  that  life  was  taking  a  new 
shape  —  or  was  it  a  new  color?  —  when  he 
woke  the  next  morning.  It  was  a  Saturday  and  the 
King's  School  was  playing  the  Town  that  day,  one 
of  the  most  important  cricket  matches  of  the  term. 
Stephen  would  be  out  of  school  by  eleven  o'clock,  the 
morning  was  brilliantly  fine,  and  he  ought,  by  all 
precedents,  to  have  awakened  with  a  keen  sense  of 
anticipation  and  enjoyment.  But  his  first  conscious 
sensation  when  he  came  out  of  sleep  was  one  of 
spiritual  discomfort.  He  was  aware  of  a  feeling  of 
gloom  and  depression.  Just  so  might  a  man  feel 
who  learns  in  the  prime  of  life  that  he  is  suffering 
from  an  incurable  disease.  It  was  as  if  he  saw  all 
the  brightness  of  the  day  through  blue  glasses. 

Yet  before  he  reached  school,  he  had  begun  to 
hope  again.  His  young  optimism  refused  to  accept 
as  unalterable  the  verdict  that  had  been  passed  on  his 
happiness.  He  was  not  ready  to  find  alleviations  in 
the  prospect  of  the  life  he  anticipated  if  his  mother 
persisted  in  the  dreadful  intention  she  had  confessed 
to  him;  but  he  found  relief  in  the  assurance  that  she 
would  certainly  change  her  mind.  The  more  he 
thought  of  it,  the  more  convinced  he  was  that  she 
could  never  run  away  with  "  that  fellow,  Threlfall." 
In  the  sunshine  of  the  Park  Road,  the  idea  became 
inconceivable. 

50 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         51 

She  had  not  come  into  breakfast.  Stephen  had 
been  glad.  He  had  been  afraid  that,  in  her  presence, 
he  would  be  unequal  to  meeting  the  stolid  enquiry  of 
Emily's  stare.  As  it  was,  his  sister  had  appeared  to 
suspect  him  of  some  complicity  but  he  believed  that 
he  had  effectively  hidden  himself  behind  a  screen  of 
rudeness  and  bad-temper.  He  had  returned  her 
stare  with  the  challenging  boyish  impudence  that 
Emily  used  to  reprove  as  "  cheek."  On  this  occa- 
sion she  had  shown  signs  of  embarrassment  and  had 
looked  away  as  if  she  had  been  caught  spying. 

They  had  all  been  uneasy  during  the  meal;  and  to 
Stephen,  his  father  and  his  two  sisters  had  seemed  to 
stand  out  more  clearly  than  usual  for  the  vague, 
assimilating  background  of  the  familiar  home-life. 
He  had  been  more  aware  of  them  as  personalities,  as 
individuals.  It  was  as  if  he  had  never  before  been 
conscious  of  their  complete  separateness  from  each 
other  and  from  himself. 

After  breakfast,  he  had  come  straight  out  of  the 
house  without  seeing  his  mother.  Usually,  when  she 
did  not  come  in  to  breakfast,  he  went  to  her  room  to 
say  "  good-by  "  before  he  went  off  to  school.  He 
was  sorry,  now,  that  he  had  omitted  that  ceremony. 
He  saw  that  she  would  probably  believe  that  he  was 
angry  with  her.  But,  at  the  time,  he  had  not  thought 
of  that.  The  truth  was  that  he  had  been  afraid  to 
go  to  her.  He  had  known  that  his  sisters  would  re- 
gard his  omission  to  say  good-by  to  his  mother,  as 
having  some  special  significance  but  he  had  felt  too 
shy  to  face  her.  He  had  been  to  her  room  hundreds 
of  times  on  a  similar  errand,  but  this  morning  the 
prospect  of  that  visit  had  had  the  air  of  being  a  new 
occasion.  Since  that  talk  of  the  night  before,  she 
seemed  to  be  in  some  way  less  his  mother,  less  his 
father's  wife.     She,  too,  was  newly  separated  from 


52         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

some  generalized  background  of  experience.  She 
had  always  been  different  from  the  others.  He  had 
seen  her  as  the  important  individual  of  the  house- 
hold. But  this  morning  he  saw  her  as  a  stranger. 
He  was  perplexed  about  her.  He  had  to  confess 
that  he  had  never  understood  her  —  either  her  secret 
life  or  her  relations  to  himself,  his  father  and  his 
sisters.  It  was  such  an  amazing  thought  that  she 
might  be  in  love!  He  had  no  test  for  that  in  her 
case.  He  had  assumed  that  love,  of  that  kind,  was 
the  prerogative  of  the  young.  He  thought  of  little 
Margaret  Weatherley,  and  blushed.  The  compar- 
ison seemed  to  him  sacrilegious,  indecent,  an  insult 
both  to  the  child  and  to  the  mature  woman. 


He  saw  young  Hall  in  the  playground,  but  no  sign 
of  greeting  passed  between  them.  Hall  was  enter- 
taining a  group  of  younger  boys,  talking  to  them  in  a 
high,  excited  voice,  posturing,  trying  to  make  them 
laugh.  Stephen  pretended  not  to  see  him.  There 
was  something  subtly  repellent  to  him  in  the  sight 
of  this  striving  to  win  popularity  by  playing  the 
mountebank  for  the  benefit  of  the  juniors.  Young 
Hall  was  always  doing  it.  His  elder  brother  did  it, 
too,  but  in  a  more  furtive  way.  He  had  favorites. 
Ypu  sometimes  saw  him  walking  down  Park  Road 
with  his  arm  on  a  little  boy's  shoulder. 

Stephen  frowned.  He  was  seeing  the  world, 
again,  through  his  blue  glasses.  The  very  sunlight 
had  lost  its  power  of  illumination. 

But  in  the  Lobby,  the  cloud  lifted  again.  He  was 
hailed  by  Noakes,  the  captain  of  the  XI  —  a  stupid 
honest  bullet-headed  boy,  but  very  good  at  games. 
Noakes  was  a  boarder,  the  son  of  a  parson,  and  ac- 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         53 

cording  to  the  accepted  social  standards  of  the 
school,  a  being  recognizably  superior  to  the  ordinary 
day-boy.  Stephen  was  conscious  of  being  flattered 
when  Noakes  hailed  him. 

44  Hallo  !  Kirkwood.  You're  the  man  I  wanted  to 
see,"  he  said.  "  I  hope  you'll  be  on  your  day,  this 
afternoon.  I'm  going  to  put  you  in  third  wicket. 
The  Town  are  showing  up  an  awfully  hot  lot  against 
us.     E.  P.  Dennis  is  playing  for  'em." 

Stephen  whistled.  "  E.  P.  Dennis!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  Why  he's  almost  a  pro.  Plays  for  the 
County." 

Noakes  nodded  dolefully.  "  And  our  bowling's 
so  absolutely  putrid,"  he  commented.  "  Our  only 
chance  is  to  win  the  toss  and  make  a  decent  score. 
Dennis  is  safe  for  a  century  if  he  once  gets  set." 

"  I'll  do  my  best,  of  course,"  remarked  Stephen, 
reverting  to  Noakes's  opening. 

1  You're  so  confoundedly  unreliable,"  Noakes 
complained.  "  If  only  you  could  come  off 
to-day.   .  .  ." 

"  I'll  admit  I  don't  feel  much  like  it,"  Stephen 
said. 

"Why  not?"  Noakes  asked  with  an  anxious 
scowl.     "Nervous?" 

44  No  —  no  —  not  in  that  way,"  Stephen  ex- 
plained. "  I  feel  a  bit  blue  all  round  this  morning 
—  I  don't  know  why." 

14  Good  Lord!  You  don't  think  you're  going  to 
have  the  measles,  do  you?  "  Noakes  said.  There's 
no  end  of  it,  about.  They're  not  sure  the  Weather- 
ley  kids  haven't  got  it.  The  Head  told  me  this 
morning  that  he  was  sending  them  all  into  the  coun- 
try at  once.  Might  have  to  shut  up  the  school,  you 
know,  if  they  have.  You  haven't  got  any  spots,  or 
cold  shivers  or  that  sort  of  thing,  have  you?  " 


54         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

Stephen  laughed.  He  was  glad  to  be  able  to 
laugh  in  order  to  relieve  his  embarrassment.  He 
was  not  much  concerned  by  the  possibility  that  little 
Margaret  Weatherley  might  be  sickening  for  the 
measles,  nor  that  she  had  probably  been  sent  away 
with  the  other  "  kids  "  to  the  country;  but  he  found 
that  any  reference  to  her,  now,  made  him  abomin- 
ably self-conscious. 

Oh!  no,  nothing  of  that  sort,"  he  said. 

"What  sort,  then?"  persisted  the  anxious 
Noakes. 

"  Oh,  home  trouble  —  of  a  kind,"  Stephen  said. 
The  admission  came  automatically,  and  his  hasty 
qualification  failed  to  disguise  it.  "  I  mean  .  .  ." 
he  began,  hesitating  to  find  some  explanation  of  his, 
as  he  supposed,  inexplicable  confession. 

But  Noakes  did  not  wait  for  the  explanation. 
"  Oh!  I  see,"  he  said  with  a  queer  look  at  Stephen, 
that  seemed  to  combine  sympathy  and  contempt. 
"  Bad  luck,"  he  added  as  he  turned  away. 

Stephen  gazed  after  him  with  a  stare  of  dismay. 
Surely  it  was  not  possible  that  Noakes  could  know 
anything  about  that?     Did  the  whole  town  know? 

The  bell  was  ringing  for  roll-call  and  prayers  in 
the  big  Hall,  and  the  gushing  uneven  current  of  boys 
began  to  set  strongly  up  the  long  corridor.  If 
Noakes  who  was  a  boarder,  had  had  news  of  the 
scandal  by  some  side  wind,  argued  Stephen,  the  day- 
boys might  be  posted  to  the  latest  detail  such  as 
yesterday's  desecration  of  the  Cathedral.  He 
watched  uneasily  as  the  younger  boys  clattered  past 
him.  He  was  ready  to  misinterpret  every  laugh  or 
grimace,  every  glance  thrown  at  him  as  evidence  that 
the  truth  was  out  and  being  discussed  on  every  hand. 
And  when  at  the  top  of  the  big  Hall,  right  under 
the  Head-master's  rostrum,  he  saw  Mallows  and 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         55 

Hall  primus  sniggering  together,  and  looking  point- 
edly in  his  direction,  he  had  no  longer  any  doubt. 


The  incident  of  the  second  hour  before  the 
"  break  "  that  to-day  would  mark  the  end  of  school 
for  the  members  of  the  first  XI,  was,  however  un- 
pleasant in  itself,  something  of  a  relief  to  Stephen. 

Dr.  Weatherley  was  taking  the  upper  and  lower 
sixths  together.  The  class  was  in  Latin,  a  prepared 
translation  of  Horace.  As  a  rule  this  was  as  stren- 
uous an  hour  as  any  in  the  week.  Weatherley  al- 
though he  had  no  gift  for  teaching,  was  an  enthus- 
iastic scholar  and  a  conscientious  master.  But  this 
morning,  he  was  obviously  worried  by  matters  out- 
side the  subject  immediately  before  him.  He  passed 
several  howlers  that  sent  up  the  eyebrows  of  the 
upper  sixth,  dropped  viciously  on  young  Winter  for 
an  uninspired  but  literally  accurate  piece  of  con- 
struing; and  then,  on  a  slightly  peevish  note,  an- 
nounced that  the  lower  sixth  as  a  whole  had  come 
disgracefully  unprepared. 

"  Look  through  the  passage  again,"  he  added  in 
a  more  conciliatory  voice.  "  I  shall  be  back  in  five 
minutes." 

Every  boy,  there,  knew  that  he  had  made  an  excuse 
to  return  for  a  few  minutes  to  the  affairs  that  were 
absorbing  his  attention  to  the  neglect  of  the  class, 
but  Weatherley  on  some  principle  of  his  own  never 
admitted  the  boys  into  his  confidence.  He  may  have 
imagined  that  this  reserve  maintained  the  influence 
of  his  prestige. 

He  had  hardly  closed  the  door  behind  him  before 
the  class  was  discussing  with  the  dignity  proper  to 
its   average   age,   the   chances   of   an   outbreak  of 


56         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

measles.  Stephen  still  absorbed  by  his  private  griev- 
ance ostensibly  devoted  himself  to  the  reconsidera- 
tion of  the  Ode  of  Horace,  but  his  ears  were  pricked 
to  catch  any  allusion  to  his  mother's  defiance  of  the 
town's  opinion,  and  when  Mallows  stepped  out  from 
his  desk,  crossed  the  room  and  renewed  his  confab- 
ulation with  Hall  I,  he  had  no  doubt  that  himself  or 
his  family  was  the  subject  of  the  conversation. 

He  could  no  longer  keep  up  his  assumption  of  in- 
difference. He  raised  his  head  and  stared  defiantly 
at  the  two  elder  boys;  a  stare  that  they  answered  by 
a  coarse  laugh. 

Mallows  had  given  Hall  I  a  sheet  of  paper,  and 
the  two  of  them  were  bending  over  it.  From  where 
he  sat,  Stephen  could  see  that  the  subject  of  their 
amusement  was  a  drawing  of  some  kind.  And  the 
face  of  young  Winter  who  sat  next  above  Hall  I  at 
the  bottom  of  the  lower  sixth,  was  burning  with  em- 
barrassment. 

Stephen's  instinctive  leap  to  his  feet  was  made  in 
defense  of  his  mother.  He  was  prepared  to  run 
amuck  if  need  be  to  proclaim  his  ..championship. 
What  momentarily  defeated  him  was  the  fact  that 
Hall  instantly  pocketed  the  drawing  with  a  sneer  of 
contempt. 

"  Give  me  that  paper,"  Stephen  demanded. 

Hall  and  Mallows  jeered  at  him  in  concert. 

"  Damn  you,  give  it  to  me,"  Stephen  insisted. 

"  Naughty  language,"  commented  Mallows. 

Hall  leaned  slightly  back  from  his  desk  and  taunt- 
ingly dared  him  to  take  the  paper  if  he  could.  Hall 
was  certainly  two  stone  heavier  than  Stephen  and 
eighteen  months  older.  Also,  he  had  Mallows  to 
help  him  if  physical  violence  were  offered. 

Stephen  trembled  with  impotence. 

"  I'm  going  to  have  it,"  he  said  passionately,  and 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         57 

might  have  dared  the  attempt  if  Noakes  had  not 
interposed. 

"  Here,  good  Lord,  what's  the  row?  "  he  asked 
coming  over  to  the  group  at  the  bottom  of  the  form. 

"  They've  got  some  filthy  drawing  or  other  — 
about  —  about  —  me,"  Stephen  exclaimed. 

Mallows  raised  his  eyebrows.  "  Really  not,"  he 
said  calmly.  "  Absolutely  no  concern  whatever  of 
Kirkwood's,  Noakes.  Just  a  private  joke  between 
Hall  and  myself." 

Noakes  was  not  a  clever  boy,  but  he  was  as  stub- 
born as  a  mule,  and  he  strongly  disapproved  of  the 
friendship  between  Mallows  and  Hall  I.  He 
thought  Stephen  rather  a  decent  kid  —  for  a  day- 
boy. 

Well,  let  me  see  the  thing,"  he  demanded  of 
Hall. 

"  Oh!  hang  it  all,  Noakes,"  Mallows  interposed. 

"  I'm  not  talking  to  you,"  Noakes  replied  to  his 
fellow  prefect.     "  I'm  talking  to  Hall." 

11  My  drawing,  though,"  Mallows  said. 

Noakes  chose  to  ignore  that.  "  Hand  it  over, 
Hall,"  he  said,  on  a  note  of  authority.  "  I'm  not 
going  to  have  this  sort  of  muck  in  the  school." 

Hall  looked  sullen  but  uneasy.  "  What  if  I 
don't?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  shall  report  it,"  Noakes  said. 

"Oh!  damn  it  all,  you  couldn't,"  Mallows  pro- 
tested. 

"  Directly  Dr.  Weatherley  comes  back,"  Noakes 
said  quietly,  "  I'm  going  to  put  a  stop  to  this  kind  of 
thing.     It's  been  going  on  too  long." 

Mallows  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Of  course  if 
Noakes  is  going  to  play  a  dirty  game  like  that,"  he 
said,  addressing  Hall. 

Noakes  held  out  his  hand  for  the  paper.     He  had 


58         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

no  gift  either  for  argument  or  repartee,  but  he  had 
a  reputation  for  keeping  his  word  that  in  the  present 
circumstances  was  more  effective. 

Hall  took  the  paper  from  his  pocket,  hesitated  as 
if  he  were  about  to  tear  it  up  and  then  sheepishly 
gave  it  to  Noakes  with  the  remark  "  Absolutely 
nothing  in  it,  really." 

Stephen  caught  one  glimpse  of  the  drawing  before 
it  was  transferred  to  Noakes's  pocket.  It  was  not 
what  he  had  dreaded.  The  figures  represented  were 
recognizable  even  without  the  initials  that  proclaimed 
their  identity  as  those  of  himself  and  little  Margaret 
Weatherley.     Mallows  was  a  clever  draughtsman. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?  Mallows 
asked  with  a  manifest  anxiety. 

"  Burn  it  as  soon  as  I  get  the  chance,"  Noakes 
said,  and  added  in  a  tone  of  disgust  for  the  benefit  of 
the  two  classes  at  large.  u  What  a  couple  of  filthy 
swine  you  are." 

He  stalked  back  to  his  desk,  the  picture  of  right- 
eous anger. 

There  could  be  no  question  that  his  was  the  pop- 
ular party.  Medboro'  was  a  clean  enough  school  as 
schools  go,  and  both  Mallows  and  Hall  I  had  long 
been  stigmatized  as  "  dirty  devils." 

Stephen,  returning  to  his  place,  was  trying  to  catch 
the  eye  of  the  perjured  Hall  secundus,  who,  alone, 
could  have  been  responsible  for  the  information  that 
had  inspired  the  subject  of  Mallows's  obscenity. 
But  young  Hall  was  pretending  a  complete  absorp- 
tion in  the  Odes  of  Horace;  and  Stephen  had  hardly 
sat  down  again,  before  Dr.  Weatherley  returned, 
evidently  in  a  great  hurry,  with  his  gown  bellying  be- 
hind him,  and  wearing  that  look  of  grave  abstrac- 
tion which  in  the  eyes  of  the  school  made  him  appear 
almost  incredibly  adult. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         59 

Fortunately  for  Stephen,  he  was  not  called  to  "  go 
on  "  before  the  clangor  of  the  bell,  rung  five  min- 
utes earlier  than  usual,  announced  for  him  the  end 
of  his  week's  work.  He  could  not  fix  his  attention 
on  Horace.  The  incident  of  the  drawing  had  tem- 
porarily closed  the  two  ends  of  the  ring  that  had  be- 
gun to  encircle  him  when  little  Margaret  Weatherley 
had  so  unexpectedly  put  him  in  a  class  apart  from  all 
the  other  boys.  That  smile  of  hers,  the  dread  of  a 
scandal  about  his  mother,  his  sight  of  her  the  night 
before  as  a  young  and  ardent  woman  in  the  thrall  of 
an  illicit  passion,  and  now  this  final  branding  of  him- 
self as  a  lover  —  all  these  influences  combined  to 
hedge  him  into  a  limited  world  in  which  he  moved, 
alone,  but  conspicuous.  He  had  a  sense  of  wrong- 
doing, of  being  ashamed,  of  somehow  ranking  with 
such  boys  as  Hall  I  and  Mallows,  whom  he  had  al- 
ways disliked.  And  he  saw  no  way  of  escape.  He 
would  surely  "  have  it  out  "  with  young  Hall  for  his 
despicable  breach  of  faith;  but  even  if  he  could  be 
induced  to  fight,  the  incident  would  confirm  rather 
than  otherwise,  the  impression  that  there  was  some 
ground  for  —  well,  for  the  implications  of  that 
beastly  drawing  of  Mallows's.  Moreover,  if  that 
ridiculous  scandal  could  be  exposed  for  the  canard 
that  it  was,  a  far  greater  and  more  valid  threat  still 
hung  over  him.  His  mother  had  said  she  would 
come  up  to  the  Town  ground  to  watch  the  match 
after  lunch,  and  some  of  the  boys  would  be  talking 
about  her  and  pointing  her  out  as  "  young  Kirk- 
wood's  mother."  He  must,  however  innocently,  be 
associated  with  her  coming  disgrace;  and  fellows  like 
Hall  primus  would  have  the  chance  to  say  that 
Stephen  was  precociously  following  in  her  footsteps  ; 
that  at  seventeen  he  was  making  love  to  the  head- 
master's daughter.     It  wasn't  true.     In  act,  Stephen 


60         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

was  perfectly  innocent.  Yet  he  felt  guilty.  Little 
Margaret's  smile  had  flattered  him,  and  he  would 
have  been  glad  to  be  sure  that  it  was  the  expression 
of  a  particular  preference  for  him  as  a  man.  He 
had  made  up  his  mind  that  should  he  meet  her  in 
the  town  and  should  she  smile  at  him  again,  he  would 
—  if  he  dared  —  return  her  salutation  with  a  sig- 
nificance that  shq  could  not  misunderstand.  He 
liked  to  picture  that  meeting,  and  to  endow  the 
thought  of  it  with  the  glamour  of  true  romance.  He 
would  like  her  to  know  that  her  favor  had  been 
gratefully  accepted,  that  he  was  her  true  and  de- 
voted slave. 

As  to  the  other  affair,  which  seemed  to  him  by 
comparison  sordid  and  in  some  way  slightly  indecent 
(his  mother  and  Dr..Threlfall  were  so  hopelessly 
old)  he  was  unfortunately  inextricably  involved. 
If  a  slur  were  cast  on  his  family's  reputation,  he 
could  not  hope  to  escape  the  taint  of  it.  He  hoped 
desperately  that  if  his  mother  did  come  to  the  match, 
she  would  not  bring  Dr.  Threlfall  with  her. 

It  was  his  preoccupation  with  this  last  threat  to 
his  reputation,  that  permitted  Hall  II  to  escape 
when  the  bell  rang  for  the  interval.  At  that  mo- 
ment Stephen  had  forgotten  the  necessity  for  having 
an  immediate  interview  with  the  mischief-maker,  and 
Hall  took  full  advantage  of  the  opportunity  afforded 
him.  When  Stephen  remembered  him,  he  was  no- 
where to  be  seen;  and  later,  on  the  way  up  to  the 
Town  ground,  Stephen  saw  his  enemy  walking  arm- 
in-arm  with  his  brother  and  Mallows,  well  protected 
against  any  hostile  approach.  The  combination  was 
already  marked  as  being  definitely  inimical  to  him. 
It  represented  a  party  that  might  find  many  new 
adherents  in  both  the  upper  and  the  lower  schools. 
And  just  then,  Stephen  forgot  that  his  own  party 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         61 

would  probably  be  the  larger  of  the  two,  and  cer- 
tainly of  a  better  standing;  he  thought  of  himself 
as  alone  and  conspicuous,  as  an  object  of  shame  ex- 
posed in  the  public  stocks. 


His  experience  of  the  first  three-quarters  of  the 
match  was  not  of  a  kind  likely  to  raise  his  spirits. 
The  Town  won  the  toss  and  took  first  innings;  lost 
one  wicket  for  seven,  and  then  proceeded  to  make 
389  in  less  than  four  hours.  The  redoubtable  E.  P. 
Dennis  was  chiefly  responsible  for  this  score,  and 
once  he  had  got  the  measure  of  the  school  bowling 
he  gave  the  field  a  strenuous  and  fatiguing  outing. 
Stephen  at  long-oft  and  deep  square  leg, —  except  for 
three  disastrous  overs  in  which  he  was  tried  as  a 
bowler  —  was  very  thankful  when  the  innings 
closed. 

In  the  last  hour  and  a  half,  he  had  almost  forgot- 
ten his  spiritual  troubles.  Dennis  was  a  powerful 
hitter,  and  Stephen  had  been  kept  very  actively  em- 
ployed in  his  efforts  to  save  boundaries.  But  as  he 
trotted  rather  wearily  across  the  length  of  the  field 
towards  the  pavilion,  he  was  hailed  out  of  the  com- 
parative ease  of  his  physical  tiredness  by  the  sight 
of  his  mother,  coming  to  meet  him,  in  company  with 
Dr.  Threlfall. 

Even  if  she  had  not  gayly  beckoned  to  him  with 
her  sunshade,  Stephen  could  not  have  avoided  them 
without  unmistakable  rudeness,  but  he  slackened  his 
pace  and  his  approach  to  them  displayed  quite  clear- 
ly the  marks  of  his  reluctance. 

His  mother  chose  to  overlook  that  evidence. 

"  Poor  Stephen,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  he  was  well 
within  hearing  distance.     "  You  must  be  tired  out. 


62         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

How  we've  been  hating  that  horrible  Dennis  person. 
Haven't  you  even  got  the  energy  left  to  say  '  How 
doyoudo' to  Dr.  Threlfall?" 

Stephen  held  out  a  limp,  hot  hand,  feebly  mum- 
bling some  inaudible  acknowledgment  of  his  as- 
sumed pleasure  at  the  meeting. 

He  was  resentful.  He  had  guessed  at  once  that 
his  mother  had  planned  this.  She  had  said  last 
night  that  she  wanted  him  to  meet  Dr.  Threlfall. 
She  was  trying  to  persuade  him  into  complicity  with 
her.  She  was  suffering  from  the  delusion  that  any 
one  who  met  Dr.  Threlfall  was  sure  to  like  him. 
And  all  Stephen's  desires  at  that  moment  were  con- 
centrated on  the  task  of  showing  her  that  she  was 
mistaken.  He  had  not  yet  looked  at  the  organist 
himself.  He  was  of  no  account  save  as  a  means  of 
communication  between  Stephen  and  his  mother. 
She,  for  practical  purposes,  was  his  only  audience. 

And  to  her,  his  intention  was  evidently  sufficiently 
obvious.  "  Surely,  dear  bov,  you're  not  so  tired  that 
you  can't  hold  your  head  up  ?  "  she  remarked  sharply. 

"  I  am  rather  done,"  Stephen  muttered.  "  It's 
been  so  beastly  hot." 

The  sound  of  Threlfall's  voice  came  with  an  effect 
of  pleasant  coolness.  "  When  do  you  go  in?"  he 
asked.     "  Shall  you  have  time  for  a  rest?  " 

"  Third  wicket,"  Stephen  mumbled. 

He  was  suddenly  ashamed  of  his  gaucheness  and 
his  manner  of  speaking.  Threlfall's  voice  had  that 
tone  and  finish,  associated  in  Stephen's  mind  with  a 
kind  of  rare  aristocracy.  The  Bishop  spoke  like 
that  and  his  wife  Lady  Constance.  There  was 
something  more  in  it  than  their  pronunciation.  You 
knew  at  once  that  that  way  of  speaking  was  natural 
to  them,  that  it  was  free  from  all  effort  or  imitation. 

"  Well,  we'll  hope  that  you  won't  have  to  go  in 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         63 

for  a  long  time  yet,"  Threlfall  continued  gently. 

Stephen  looked  up.  He  had  seen  the  organist 
before  at  a  distance,  hurrying  up  the  aisle  of  the 
Cathedral  in  his  gown,  or  crossing  the  cloisters,  but 
never  until  to-day  at  such  close  quarters  as  this. 
And  the  effect  of  him  accorded,  almost  startlingly, 
with  the  sound  of  his  cultured,  musical  voice.  There 
was  about  him  a  complete  air  of  gentleness.  His 
good  looks  were  only  saved  from  femininity  by  the 
dominating  stamp  of  their  intellectuality.  His 
steady  eyes,  his  forehead,  the  shape  of  his  head, 
and  the  clean  curves  of  his  mouth  and  chin  all  pro- 
claimed him  an  intellectual.  But  behind  these  more 
obvious  evidences  was  something  that  produced  a 
dominating  impression,  of  softness,  of  tenderness, 
and  of  grace. 

And  Stephen  succumbed,  with  one  last  flash  of 
impatience  to  a  fascination  that  was,  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned,  irresistible.  He  was  impressed,  and 
almost  too  ready,  perhaps,  to  offer  instinctive  hom- 
age to  one  whom  he  recognized  as  a  social  and  in- 
tellectual superior.  He  saw  Threlfall  for  an  instant 
as  Cecilia  Kirkwood  saw  him,  and  there  came  to  him 
a  passing  vision  of  his  own  father  as  hopelessly  de- 
graded by  the  impression.  How  could  the  little 
bookseller,  with  his  untidy  beard,  his  common 
speech,  his  absurd  little  affectations  of  scholarship 
hope  to  compete,  in  love,  with  this  charming  aristo- 
crat? 

Later,  Stephen  was  in  his  own  thoughts  inclined 
vehemently  to  defend  his  father;  but  just  then,  he 
was  able  to  realize  his  mother's  weakness.  He  saw 
with  her  eyes  and  appreciated  her  inability  to  resist. 
Indeed  it  seemed  to  him  that  wonderful  as  he  had 
always  thought  her  to  be,  she  was  honored  by  this 
man's  devotion. 


64         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"  I  hope  I  sha'n't,"  Stephen  said  in  reply  to  Threl- 
fall's  comment,  "  but  I'm  afraid  we  don't  stand  much 
of  a  chance."  He  looked  up  frankly  now,  smiling  a 
little  shyly. 

u  Because  you've  had  such  a  gruelling  in  the 
field?"  Threlfall  asked,  sympathetically. 

"  Partly,"  Stephen  admitted.  "  But  really  they're 
too  good  for  us  all  round." 

"  Oh!  well,  of  course,  if  you're  going  in  to  bat,  in 
that  spirit  .  .   ."  his  mother  said. 

"  It's  quite  extraordinary  how  an  eleven  can  be 
affected  in  that  way,"  Threlfall  replied,  as  they  all 
three  walked  slowly  back  towards  the  pavilion. 
"  The  phrase  about  a  '  rot  setting  in  '  is  founded  on 
jolly  good  psychology.  It's  absolutely  true,  isn't  it," 
he  went  on  turning  to  Stephen,  "  that  when  a  team 
gets  its  tail  down,  it  goes  all  to  pieces?  " 

"Oh!  rather,"  Stephen  agreed,  flattered  at  this 
reference  to  him  as  to  an  expert. 

"  I  have  to.  get  back  now,"  Threlfall  said  as  they 
reached  the  Pavilion.  "  I  left  the  service  to  Walker 
for  once,  but  I've  got  an  appointment  with  the  Dean 
at  four  o'clock.  Jolly  to  have  met  you,  Stephen.  I 
hope  that  we  shall  see  a  lot  more  of  one  another 
later  on." 

Stephen  still  under  the  influence  of  the  organist's 
fascination  responded  with  a  shy  enthusiasm. 

"  Oh !  thanks,"  he  said  awkwardly. 

Not  until  the  graceful  figure  of  Dr.  Threlfall  had 
turned  the  corner  of  the  pavilion,  did  Stephen  awake 
to  a  consciousness  of  the  fact  that  he  and  his 
mother  were  standing  alone  in  the  focus  of  attention. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  they  were  suddenly  displayed 
as  a  single  object  for  the  censure  of  the  crowd,  and 
that  at  any  moment  a  drastic  judgment  might  de- 
scend upon  and  wither  them.     He  had  not  the  cour- 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         6s 

age  to  raise  his  eyes.  It  was  a  shock  to  him  when 
he  heard  his  mother's  voice  saying  clearly  and  con- 
fidentially, as  if  she  and  he  were  safely  in  the  seclu- 
sion of  the  house : 

"  Now  own  up,  Stephen.  Admit  that  you  were 
wrong  about  him." 

He  frowned  nervously.  "  Oh !  I  say,  mother, 
let's  get  out  of  this,"  he  said. 

Cecilia  smiled,  and  twirled  her  parasol  with  a 
gesture  that  had  an  effect  of  careless  defiance.  "  My 
dear  little  boy,"  she  remonstrated,  "  it's  no  use  run- 
ning away.  I  know  that  they're  all  staring  at  us  and 
trying  to  hear  what  we  say.  Does  it  matter? 
We've  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of;  and  I'm  quite  used 
to  being  stared  at.  Courage,  Stephen,  courage. 
They'll  pelt  us  directly  we  turn  our  backs  on  them." 

He  was  too  uncomfortable  to  get  the  flavor  of 
that  image.  "  We  must  go  sometime,"  he  grumbled. 
"  And  anyway  I  shouldn't  be  sorry  to  sit  down." 

"  Oh!  dear,  how  feeble  you  are,  this  afternoon," 
she  exclaimed  impatiently.  "  Well,  let's  go  and  sit 
somewhere.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  —  last 
night,  about  everything.  Now  you've  seen  him,  it 
makes  all  the  difference." 

"  Oh,  mother,  not  now;  not  here,"  he  protested. 

He  resented  both  her  frankness  and  her  selfishness. 
He  felt  vaguely  that  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  her 
obsession.  Why  couldn't  she  realize  that  her  sub- 
mission to  the  organist's  fascination  was  something 
to  be  fought  against  and  subdued?  He  admitted 
the  fascination  now,  and  saw  the  whole  problem  in 
a  new  light;  but  even  in  its  new  aspect,  it  only  ap- 
peared as  a  more  subtle  snare.  Nothing  could  make 
it  right.  Moreover,  a  further  complication  was 
puzzling  him.  His  mother  must  be  older  than  Dr. 
Threlfall.     She  was,  he  knew,  forty-one;  and  until 


66         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

this  near  sight  of  him  he  had  supposed  without  en- 
quiry that  the  organist  was  at  least  as  old.  He  had 
heard  people  say  when  Threlfall  was  appointed  a 
few  months  before  that  he  was  very  young  to  hold 
that  position;  but  for  all  Stephen  knew,  fifty  might 
have  been  young  for  a  cathedral  organist. 

"  How  tiresome  you  are,"  his  mother  said.  "  Do, 
for  goodness'  sake,  go  and  lie  down  somewhere  until 
it's  your  turn  to  go  in." 

Stephen  looked  down  at  her  apologetically;  her 
temper  always  slightly  intimidated  him. 

"  But  mother,  surely  you  can't  want  me  to  talk 
about  that;  now?  "  he  expostulated. 

"  Not  if  you  don't  want  to,"  she  returned  petu- 
lantly. "  And,  in  any  case  here's  that  awful  aunt  of 
yours  coming  to  save  the  rags  of  my  reputation,  if 
she  can." 

Mrs.  Bell  was,  indeed,  bearing  down  upon  them 
with  a  lingering  directness  that  expressed  a  kind  of 
steady  intention  without  impulse.  She  came  not  be- 
cause she  w*ished  to,  but  because  she  felt  that  she 
"  simply  must,"  as  she  would  have  put  it.  She  could 
no  longer  bear  to  see  her  brother's  wife,  posed  in  the 
public  eye,  and  flaunting  her  light-minded  courage. 
People  were  talking  about  her,  almost  openly,  as  an 
abandoned  woman;  and  an  unbearable  reflection  of 
the  scandal  was  falling  upon  Mrs.  Bell,  herself. 
Personally,  she  did  not  believe  that  her  sister-in-law 
"  meant  anything."  She  was  just  a  victim  of  her  de- 
plorable vanity.  She  enjoyed,  incredible  as  it 
seemed,  to  be  talked  about,  even  though  the  talk 
were  malicious. 

"  My  dear  Cicely,"  she  said,  a  trifle  breathlessly, 
as  she  came  up.  "  Is  it  wise  to  stand  about  in  this 
sun,  like  that?     Why  not  come  in  the  shade?  " 

She  had  not  had  the  least  intention  of  using  a 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         67 

metaphor,   and  was  shocked  by  her  sister-in-law's 
laugh. 

■  My  dear  Eleanor,"  Cecilia  replied  with  a  frank 
imitation  of  Mrs.  Bell's  manner.  "  I  happen  to  en- 
joy the  sun."  And  again  she  gave  that  vigorous 
twirl  to  her  sunshade,  which  bespoke  her  defiance  of 
all  Medboro'  opinion. 

Mrs.  Bell  simpered.  "  I  can't  think  it's  wise," 
she  suggested  with  an  air  of  apologetic,  yet  stead- 
fastly determined  reproof. 

"  I'm  not  wise,  Eleanor,"  Cecilia  said.  "  And  in 
any  case,  I'm  going  home.  There's  nothing  to  stop 
for,  now." 

Even  Stephen,  still  waiting  reluctantly,  winced  at 
that  rather  brutal  statement.  Mrs.  Bell  literally 
quivered.  "  Really,  Cicely,"  she  said,  "  I  can't  im- 
agine what  you  mean.  Sha'n't  you  stay  to  see 
Stephen  go  in?  " 

Oh !  Stephen  hasn't  pleased  me  this  afternoqp," 
his  mother  said,  looking  round  at  him  with  an  ex- 
pression of  contempt.  And  I  feel  absolutely  cer- 
tain that  he'll  be  out  first  ball.  He's  so  tired  al- 
ready that  he's  hardly  got  the  energy  to  stand  up. 
If  he  weren't  so  horribly  afraid  of  being  stared  at, 
he'd  probably  drop  down  on  the  grass  at  our  feet 
this  minute." 

"  Mother!  "  Stephen  protested  feebly. 

She  made  a  little  gesture  of  disdain.  She  was  so 
able  to  display  her  mood;  and  her  son  was  so  well 
versed  in  reading  the  varying  shades  of  her  expres- 
sion. And  a  sign  such  as  she  had  now  given  him 
was  sufficient  to  plunge  him  into  despair.  They  had 
often  had  these  lover's  quarrels  in  recent  years,  and 
he  knew  that  for  this  afternoon  at  least,  he  was 
"  out  "  with  her. 

He  had  always  hated  that  sense  of  being  "  out  " 


68         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

with  her;  but  to-day  as  he  accepted  his  dismissal  and 
drifted  off  to  a  comparatively  quiet  corner  where  he 
could  throw  himself  down  and  reflect  at  his  leisure, 
he  was  aware  of  a  feeling  of  abandonment  that  was 
new  to  him.  He  was  facing  for  the  first  time  the 
full  realization  that  she  might,  almost  any  day,  be 
finally  lost  to  him  —  if,  indeed,  she  were  not  lost 
already.  And  after  his  recent  emotions,  he  was  not 
perfectly  sure  whether  the  loss  of  her  might  not,  af- 
ter all,  carry  certain  compensating  advantages.  He 
had  a  feeling  of  release,  as  if  some  almost  unbearable 
strain  upon  his  loyalty  had  been  mercifully  relaxed. 
If  she  no  longer  loved  him;  if  she  had  ceded  every- 
thing that  she  had  to  that  man  of  all  the  gifts  whom 
Stephen  in  his  present  mood  longed,  and  yet  failed, 
to  dislike;  he  was  in  some  sense  relieved  from  the 
responsibility  of  dissuading  her.  The  thought  gave 
him  ease  in  the  midst  of  his  pain.  He  had  been  a 
slave,  finding  his  greatest  joy  in  submission,  but  now, 
despite  the  misery  of  his  ache,  he  might  be  free.  He 
was  a  trifle  uncertain  of  his  glories,  as  yet;  he 
trembled  a  little  at  the  vastness  of  the  new  places  in 
which  he  found  himself  free  to  wander;  but  he  was 
distinctly  aware  of  great  possibilities  in  his  thought 
of  that  freedom. 

His  mind  presented  a  picture  of  little  Margaret 
Weatherley,  turning  with  a  dainty  whisk  of  short 
skirts  and  long  hair  to  single  him  out  with  the  en- 
chanted smile  of  her  favor. 

A  groan,  from  a  small  knot  of  lower  school  boys 
close  at  hand,  turned  his  attention  back  to  the  match. 

Graham  was  out;  and  his  spread-eagled  wicket  ad- 
vertised the  cause  of  his  dismissal.  The  telegraph 
board  was  being  hoisted.  17  —  1  —  11.  Noakes, 
the  Captain,  was  in  at  the  other  end,  playing  his  usual 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         69 

careful  game  with  even  more  than  his  customary  cau- 
tion. Mallows  was  the  next  man,  a  hitter.  He 
might  knock  the  professional  off  .his  length.  It  was 
invariably  the  town  pro.  who  took  the  majority  of 
the  wickets.  And  then  Mallows  spooned  his  second 
ball  into  the  hands  of  mid-off  —  an  absolute  sitter ! 

Stephen  got  up  and  went  back  to  the  pavilion  to 
put  on  his  pads.  By  the  entrance  he  met  Hall  I  com- 
ing out.  They  did  not  speak  to  one  another, —  Hall 
was  just  going  in  to  bat, —  but  the  confrontation  re- 
called Stephen  to  the  thought  of  his  second  problem. 

But,  strangely  enough,  it  came  back  to  him  in  a 
new  guise.  He  no  longer  looked  upon  the  ragging 
he  anticipated  from  Mallows  and  Hill  as  likely  to 
cast  some  sort  of  slur  upon  him.  It  was  true  that 
the  innuendo  of  that  drawing  was  a  thing  of  disgust, 
if  it  were  only  in  the  cause  of  little  Margaret  Weath- 
erley's  reputation  he  must  resolutely  suppress  —  he 
would  have  all  the  decent-minded  fellows  in  the  sixth 
on  his  side  —  any  attempt  to  sully  the  affair  by  such 
hideous  suggestion  as  that  of  the  morning.  He 
would  begin  his  campaign  by  fighting  Hall  II.  But 
all  the  feeling  of  disgrace  that  had  been  so  present 
with  him  a  few  hours  ago,  had  gone.  He  could  not 
understand  why  he  should  ever  have  thought  that 
there  was  anything  shameful  in  the  accusation  of 
being  in  love  with  the  headmaster's  daughter. 

As  he  fastened  the  buckles  of  his  pads  he  looked 
boldly  round  from  his  elevation  on  a  seat  back  of 
the  pavilion,  to  see  if  little  Miss  Weatherley,  herself, 
had  come  to  watch  the  match.  He  hoped,  quite  des- 
perately, that  she  had,  and  that  a  chance  might  be 
given  him  to  do  something  heroic  in  her  sight  — 
save  the  school  from  a  bad  licking,  for  instance. 
But  there  was  no  sign  of  any  of  the  Headmaster's 


70         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

party,  nor  even  of  Dr.  Weatherley,  himself.  Per- 
haps that  rumor  concerning  the  outbreak  of  measles 
had  had  good  foundation. 

Hall  I  did  not  look  likely  to  stay  long,  and 
Stephen  tried  to  collect  his  thoughts  and  concentrate 
them  on  the  determination  to  save  the  school  from 
defeat.  He  had  made  41  not  out  in  the  match 
against  Whittlesea  on  the  school  ground,  a  month 
ago,  and  if  he  could  but  recover  the  sense  of  mastery 
that  had  come  to  him  on  that  occasion,  he  might 
make  a  century  to-day.  He  had  never  made  a  cen- 
tury and  it  would  be  a  magnificent  achievement  to 
make  one,  now,  when  runs  were  so  badly  wanted. 
Confidence  was  the  thing.  If  he  could  go  in,  feeling 
sure  of  himself,  he  would  be  all  right.  But,  then, 
his  thoughts  flew  off  again  to  the  question  of  how  he 
was  going  to  get  young  Hall  up  to  the  scratch  of  an 
actual  fight  in  the  gymnasium.  It  was  queer  how 
little  interest  cricket  had  for  him  that  afternoon. 

And  even  after  Hall  I  had  been  well  caught  in  the 
long  field  from  a  wild  swipe  that  had  sent  the  ball 
soaring  to  a  tremendous  height,  Stephen  could  not 
concentrate  his  attention  on  the  important  task  be- 
fore him.  As  he  went  out  to  join  the  patient  Noakes 
at  the  wickets,  he  was  still  pondering  the  difficulties 
of  stimulating  the  courage  of  Hall  II. 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  play  carefully,"  Noakes 
murmured  as  Stephen  passed  him. 

Stephen  nodded.  He  would  do  his  best,  of 
course,  but  just  then,  cricket  really  didn't  seem  to 
matter. 

It  seemed  to  matter  less  and  less,  as  the  overs 
passed ;  though  he  grew  more  interested  in  demonstra- 
ting to  himself  how  absurdly  easy  it  was  to  play  the 
town's  bowling.  Something  inside  him  responded 
automatically    to    the    threat    or    promise    of    each 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         71 

delivery.  He  did  not  know  why  he  played  forward 
to  one  good  length  ball  and  back  to  another,  or  why 
he  knew  instantly  which  balls  it  was  safe  to  hit;  the 
fact  was  obvious,  and  it  was  quite  an  amusing  game 
to  realize  his  own  competence.  Nothing  else  inter- 
ested him  for  the  time  being.  He  did  not  know 
how  many  he  had  scored;  the  encouraging  shouts  of 
the  school  appeared  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  his 
own  play ;  the  one  truly  fascinating  phenomenon  was 
that  the  ball  looked  as  big  as  a  cabbage,  and  that  it 
was  practically  impossible  to  miss  it.  It  was  cer- 
tainly a  dreadful  bore  watching  his  patient  captain 
refusing  splendid  chances  to  score;  but  on  the  other 
hand  it  was  good  fun  to  show  him  how  to  take  them 
when  his  own  turn  came. 

"  Steady,  old  chap,  you're  playing  frightfully 
well.  Don't  get  reckless,"  Noakes  urged  him  once 
between  the  overs. 

"  All  right,"  Stephen  had  replied,  and  for  a  few 
moments  he  had  tried  once  more  to  concentrate  on 
the  determination  to  make  a  hundred;  but  before 
his  turn  to  play  had  come  again,  he  had  forgotten  his 
intention.  The  truth  was  that  for  some  reason 
he  had  not  time  to  examine,  he  did  not  care  whether 
he  got  out  or  not. 

Meanwhile  the  bowling  was  unquestionably  get- 
ting looser.  When  the  pro."  came  on  again  for 
the  third  time,  he  was  pitching  them  short  and  giving 
Stephen  just  the  opportunities  he  wanted  to  pull 
them  round  to  leg.  He  had  always  been  strongest 
on  the  leg  side.  He  was  a  well  built  boy,  but  he  had 
not  the  power  as  yet  to  make  long  drives  on  the  off. 

He  was  immensely  astonished,  when  instead  of 
crossing  at  the  end  of  the  over,  the  players  began  to 
move  off  the  field.  He  had  heard  the  pavilion  clock 
strike  a  few  seconds  before,  but  it  seemed  to  have 


72         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

been  striking  every  ten  minutes  since  he  had  been  in. 
He  was  still  more  surprised  when  he  found  himself 
the  center  of  a  wildly  enthusiastic  crowd,  and  felt 
himself  being  lifted  shoulder  high  and  carried  back 
to  the  pavilion. 

And  then  his  intense  preoccupation  with  something 
altogether  disconnected  with  cricket,  suddenly  broke. 
He  leaned  down  and  spoke  to  Graham  who  was 
carrying  his  right  leg. 

"  I  say,  Graham,"  he  asked  with  a  great  burst  of 
excitement.     "  How  many  have  I  made?  " 

"  A  hundred  and  thirty-six,"  Graham  told  him. 

5 

Some  guardian  angel  gifted  with  a  nice  sense  of 
earthly  values  and  the  power  of  interference  with 
worldly  affairs  seemed  to  have  been  guiding  Stephen's 
destiny  that  afternoon;  for  that  "  century  "  of  his 
was  unquestionably  a  very  powerful  influence  in  the 
determination  of  his  immediate  affairs.  However 
modestly  he  had  tried  to  conceal  his  elation  while 
he  was  still  on  the  field,  he  was  very  conscious  of  his 
recent  promotion  to  the  rank  of  hero,  as  he  slammed 
into  the  shop  in  Long  Causeway  at  seven  o'clock. 
Noakes  had  slapped  him  on  the  back  with  a  magnifi- 
cent heartiness  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment,  and 
had  eulogized  his  performance  as  "  a  thundering 
good  innings."  Stephen  had  good  cause  for  satis- 
faction all  round. 

His  father  looked  up  with  a  nervous  jerk  as  his 
son  came  in,  then  catching  some  reflection  of  the 
triumph  that  shone  in  Stephen's  face,  asked,  "  Did 
you  win?  " 

"  No,  we  drew,"  Stephen  said,  doing  his  best  not 
to  appear  too  vainglorious,  and  added  as  quietly  as 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         73 

he  could,  "  I  say,  father,  I  made  a  hundred  and 
thirty-six,  not  out." 

Mr.  Kirkwood  beamed  and  began  to  rub  his  hands 
together,  a  trick  of  his  that  Cecilia  had  never  been 
able  to  cure.  "  A  hundred  and  thirty-six  not  out," 
he  repeated  on  a  note  of  flattering  astonishment. 
"  I  say!  I  say!  Stephen;  that's  something  like." 

"  Yes,  and  there's  more  in  it  than  that,  father," 
Stephen  went  on,  forgetting  his  modesty  in  this  at- 
mosphere of  safe  admiration.  "  I  mean,  the  town 
went  in  first  and  made  389,  Dennis  was  playing  for 
them,  you  know  —  he  made  108  —  and  when  we 
went  in  we  lost  three  wickets  for  27.  Then  I  went 
in  with  Noakes  and  we  played  out  time  together. 
We  should  have  licked  'em  if  we'd  had  more  time. 
Noakes  only  made  81  not  out.  He's  awfully  slow, 
you  know." 

Mr.  Kirkwood  produced  a  handkerchief  and  wiped 
his  eyes.  "  Let's  go  and  tell  mother,"  he  said. 
"  She's  upstairs.  She  came  in  to  tea  and  hasn't 
been  out  again  since." 

"  Noakes  and  I  stopped  the  rot,  you  see," 
Stephen  explained  as  he  and  his  father  went  upstairs, 
both  of  them  brimming  with  boyish  excitement. 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  Mr.  Kirkwood  agreed  eagerly. 
"  You  made  the  runs,  just  in  the  nick  of  time,  eh? 
They'll  think  a  lot  of  you  up  at  the  school  after 
this." 

"  Noakes  was  frightfully  pleased,"  Stephen  ad- 
mitted. 

They  broke  into  the  sitting-room  together  so  hot 
with  pride  and  enthusiasm  that  Cecilia  and  the  two 
girls  started  up  with  an  exclamation  of  something 
that  sounded  like  dismay. 

"  It's  all  right,  all  right,"  Mr.  Kirkwood  stam- 
mered reassuringly,  while  Stephen  stood  a  little  be- 


74         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

hind  him,  ready  to  prompt  his  willing  trumpeter 
should  he  fail  to  emphasize  the  great  dramatic  value 
of  the  perfect  innings.  "  Here's  Stephen  been  doing 
great  things,  mother  —  oh !  very  great  things  — 
saved  the  school  in  the  nick  of  time  and  made  136 
not  out." 

"  Oh!  Stephen!  "  gasped  Emily  and  Hilda,  rising 
at  once  to  the  proper  note  of  applause.  "  Did  you 
really?  Do  tell  us  all  about  it,"  they  continued 
antiphonally. 

.In  their  acclamation  of  the  family  achievement, 
Mr.  Kirkwood  and  his  two  daughters  seemed  to  have 
temporarily  forsaken  the  worship  of  their  usual  idol, 
and  to  have  set  up  a  new  image  in  her  pi'  ^he 

bookseller,   flushing  with  pleasure   at  thii  re- 

sponse to  his  son's  exploit,  had  turned  his  back  on  his 
wife,  and  was  staring  at  his  son,  rubbing  his  hands 
together  and  beaming  upon  him  with  a  simple,  boyish 
glee.  Cecilia  must  not  be  judged  too  harshly  on  this 
occasion,  for  displaying  what  appeared  to  be  nothing 
more  than  a  childish  jealousy. 

The  truth  is  tf  at  she,  alone,  was  able  to  appre- 
ciate the  spirit  'hat  underlay  this  slightly  hysterical 
ovation  of  S4  ;aen.  She  had  failed  them.  In  the 
past  few  we  *ks,  she  had  strained  their  loyalty.  The 
admiration  ae  had  been  able  to  evoke  without  ef- 
fort, was  being  tendered  more  and  more  grudg- 
ingly. The  worship  that  had  been  a  spontaneous  ex- 
pression of  emotion  was  degenerating  into  a  dogma. 
And  she  resized  the  significance  of  their  instinctive 
willingness  to  turn  their  regard  towards  a  new  ob- 
ject of  admiration.  She  had  worried  and  tired 
them.  It  was  a  relief  for  them  to  forget  her.  If 
Stephen  had  performed  his  feat  six  weeks  ago,  the 
tribute  of  it  would  have  been  flung  at  her  feet.  Now 
her  husband  and  her  two  daughters  grasped  eagerly 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         75 

at  an  excuse  for  diverting  their  attention  from  her; 
and  Stephen,  himself,  had  become  —  she  could  read 
the  signs  of  it  in  his  face  and  attitude  —  self-suffi- 
cient. He  was  satisfied  with  the  applause  he  had 
been,  and  was  still,  receiving.  She  was  no  longer 
essential  to  his  happiness.  After  their  quarrel  of 
the  afternoon,  she  had  expected  him  to  come  back 
submissively  asking  her  forgiveness.  Instead  of  that 
he  returned  flushed  with  pride,  and  almost  forgetful 
of  her  existence. 

Her  temperament  could  not  endure  the  slight  to 
her  vanity.  Her  vivid  imagination  pictured  the 
probable  development  of  the  conversation  through- 
out th>  -ening;  the  elaborations  of  Stephen's  per- 
forman  £he  endless  repetitions  and  descriptions  in 
which  his^  innings  would  be  played  over  and  over 
again.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  endure  the  awful 
futility  of  that  prospect.  She  was  aware  of  being 
suddenly  mature,  of  having  passed  the  summit  of  her 
powers  and  of  falling  into  .the  pitiful  condition  of 
one  who  lives  on  her  reputation 

She  got  up  with  a  quick  movement  of  determina- 
tion as  if  she  would  fly  from  the  sigitf  of  her  defeat, 
and  walked  over  to  the  door.  iaoj^ 

But,  at  that,  Stephen  did  at  last  male  jin  effort  to 
reach  out  to  her.  He  had  been  con%ous  of  his 
triumph  over  her.  In  his  boyish  way  hd  had  been 
glad  to  brag  of  his  independence;  glad  to  be  able 
to  come  back  after  their  quarrel  of  the  aj^ernoon 
and  show  her  that  she  had  not,  aftejf(  all,  spoilt 
his  day.  But  he  could  not  let  her  go  without  a 
protest. 

"  Mother,  aren't  you  going  to  say  anything?  "  he 
asked,  half  in  supplication,  half  in  defiance. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him.  "  Oh!  you  don't 
want  me  any  more,"  she  said. 


76         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

Even  then,  the  scales  of  their  destiny  had  not  ir- 
recoverably dipped. 

As  she  stood  there  by  the  door  looking  back  at 
her  son,  the  alternatives  were  perfectly  clear  in  her 
mind.  She  was  not  irretrievably  committed.  She 
was  in  love  with  Christopher  Threlfall.  He  stood 
to  her  for  all  that  was  adorable  in  a  man;  for  beauty, 
grace  of  mind,  culture,  ability.  He  was  deeply  in 
love  with  her.  He  had  been  trying  his  best  to  per- 
suade her  to  go  away  with  him  —  to  London,  where 
he  promised  her  that  they  would  be  enthusiastically 
received  by  a  large  circle  of  his  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances; musicians,  artists  and  writers;  broad-minded 
men  and  women  who  would  honor  rather  than 
despise  them  for  their  brave  flouting  of  convention. 

Yet  the  lure  of  that  bewildering  picture  had  not 
completely  bemused  her  quick  intelligence.  In  her 
most  fascinated  contemplation  of  it,  she  had  been 
able  to  reckon  her  probable  loss.  She  had  not  lived 
for  twenty-five  years  in  a  provincial  town  without 
absorbing  something  of  its  opinions.  Moreover 
greatly  as  she  affected  to  despise  the  audience  she 
had  won  for  herself  in  Medboro'  she  realized  that 
it  would  be  a  loss  to  turn  all  that  deftly-won  admira- 
tion into  contempt.  She  was  still  aware  of  her  suc- 
cess in  Medboro'.  It  sometimes  palled  as  being 
too  similar  in  kind,  but  it  supported  her.  And  some- 
how, she  ranked  her  husband  and  her  two  daughters 
in  this  category  of  general  support.  In  one  other 
class  quite  apart,  stood  Stephen.  If  the  other  in- 
fluences tipped,  on  the  whole,  the  balance  in  favor 
of  Christopher,  love,  and  the  larger  society  of  musi- 
cians, artists  and  writers  in  London;  her  love  for  her 
son  might  yet  have  turned  the  scale. 

And  as  she  watched  him,  now,  she  definitely  wav- 
ered.    His  merely  physical  attraction  alone  made 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         77 

her  ytarn  towards  him.  He  looked  so  clean  and 
young  and  vigorous.  His  white  flannels  set  off  the 
delicate  strength  of  his  slender  limbs  and  graceful 
body.  The  sunburn  on  his  face  emphasized  the 
handsome  lines  of  his  features,  the  rather  dark  blue 
of  the  eyes  that  were  so  like  her  own.  He  was  un- 
doubtedly a  nice-looking  boy;  and  there  was,  even  in 
this  hour  of  his  triumph,  something  wistful  and 
pleading  about  his  beauty  that  appealed  to  her 
womanhood. 

It  is  almost  certain  that  he  might  have  won  her 
even  at  that  eleventh  hour,  had  he  realized  the  climax 
and  responded  as  she  would  have  had  him  respond. 
But  he  was  too  elated  for  humility,  just  then;  and 
her  apparent  indifference  to  his  success  had  wounded 
him.  Moreover  she  had  put  into  words  his  thought 
of  the  afternoon.  "  You  don't  want  me  any  more," 
she  had  said,  and  again  a  sense  of  freedom  from 
some  old  restraint,  a  sense  of  enlargement  and  lib- 
erty flashed  through  his  mind. 

His  reply  was  merely  petulant.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  turned  away  from  her,  with  the 
same  boyish  rudeness  of  gesture  with  which  he  might 
have  snubbed  one  of  his  sisters.  But  with  that  ges- 
ture he  made  a  decision  that  was  to  alter  the  course 
of  all  their  lives. 

Cecilia  turned  quickly  away,  and  left  the  room, 
shutting  the  door  after  her. 


Emily  turned  the  embarrassment  of  her  steady 
gaze  immovably  upon  her  father. 

"  I  don't  know  what's  come  to  mother,  lately," 
she  said. 


78         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

Mr.  Kirkwood  began  to  fidget  with  his  sparse  little 
beard.  "  She's  a  little  out  of  sorts,  perhaps,"  he 
hazarded  feebly. 

"Well,  oughtn't  we  to  do  something,  father?" 
Emily  continued  still  pinning  him  with  her  stare. 

"  Oh !  what  can  you  do?  "  put  in  Stephen  irritably. 
Everything  was  spoilt,  now;  and  it  was  all  his 
mother's  fault.  Why  couldn't  she  behave  sensibly? 
Surely  she  hadn't  expected  him  to  come  straight 
home,  and  beg  her  pardon,  and  ask  her  to  talk  to 
him  about  Threlfall, —  after  that  innings? 

Emily  turned  herself  about,  and  focussed  her  at- 
tention upon  her  brother.  "  If  she's  out  of  sorts, 
she  ought  to  see  a  doctor,"  she  said. 

11  That  wouldn't  be  any  good,"  Stephen  returned 
without  hesitation. 

"Well,  but  why  wouldn't  it?"  Emily  enquired, 
with  a  meaning  in  her  tone  that  could  not  be  mis- 
taken. 

11  No  good  asking  me,"  was  Stephen's  evasion. 

"  Well,  I  think  it's  time  something  was  done," 
Emily  said,  sharpening  the  point  of  her  now  obvious 
intention. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Emily,"  little 
Kirkwood  put  in  nervously. 

Emily  knew,  they  all  three  knew,  that  their 
father's  remark  had  been  intended  as  a  reminder 
that  any  open  discussion  of  a  mother's  failings  was 
impossible  between  father  and  children;  but  Emily 
had  made  up  her  mind  that  the  time  had  come  when 
they  must,  in  her  own  phrase,  "  face  the  facts." 

I  don't  think  it's  right  for  us  to  let  things  go  on, 
and  not  make  any  effort  to  stop  them,"  she  said  in  a 
low,  but  determined  voice.  I  don't  see  the  good 
of  our  going  on  pretending,  when  we  all  know  per- 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         79 

fectly  well  what's  happening.     Do  you,   Hilda?" 
11  No,  I  don't,"  Hilda  emphatically  agreed. 
Stephen  sitting  on  the  sofa,  disconsolately  nursing 

his  foot,  was  staring  straight  out  in  front  of  him 

with  just  such  an  expression  as  his  mother  had  worn 

the  evening  before. 

Mr.  Kirkwood  began  to  fret.     "  No,  no,  Emily 

—  really  I  can't  see  the  use  of  our  discussing  things 
that  we  —  at  least  that  you  don't  understand.     It 

—  it  isn't  —  it  can't  do  any  good  —  our  talking 
about  them.  Besides.  .  .  ."  He  was  valiantly  do- 
ing his  best  to  stop  these  disloyal  confidences;  yet  he 
had  a  strong  disinclination  to  take  the  obviously  ef- 
fective course  of  immediately  leaving  them  with  the 
excuse  that  he  must  go  down  to  the  shop.  It  would 
have  been  an  immense  relief  to  him  to  confide  some 
of  the  tortured  arguments  that  had  perpetually 
haunted  him  during  the  last  few  weeks,  and  now  that 
Emily  had  spoken  out  he  found  a  kind  of  solace  in 
playing  with  the  temptation.  But  all  the  man  he 
had  made  of  himself,  resolutely  opposed  the  idea  of 
making  confidants  of  his,  and  her,  children.  More- 
over, the  one  argument  that  rose  up  so  overshadow- 
ingly  at  those  times  when  he  had  found  a  dozen  mag- 
nificent reasons  to  prove  that  Cecilia  could  never  be 
finally  unfaithful  to  him,  was  an  argument  that  could 
not  conceivably  be  repeated  to  any  living  person. 
Most  certainly  he  could  never  in  any  circumstances 
ever  hint  to  Emily,  Hilda  or  Stephen  that  their 
mother  had  not,  in  a  way,  been  his  wife,  now,  for 
more  than  five  weeks. 

She  had  made  no  excuse  for  her  evasions,  and  he 
had  asked  her  for  none.  He  had  done  his  best  to 
pretend  that  he  did  not  care. 

"  Besides  .  .  ."  he  was  going  on,  trying  to  show 
good  cause  for  avoiding  the  subject,  while  still  keep- 


80         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

ing  the  shadow  of  it  just  within  sight;  but  Emily  in- 
terrupted him. 

"  Sh!  Listen!  "  she  said,  adjuring  him  with  an 
uplifted  forefinger.  "  There !  "  she  added,  as 
through  the  silence  that  followed  they  heard  the 
sound  of  their  mother's  feet  upon  the  stairs. 

Hilda  jumped  up  and  went  to  the  window. 

"  She's  gone  down  the  street  —  towards  the  Lin- 
coln Road,"  was  her  report,  given  a  few  seconds 
later. 

Mr.  Kirkwood  chose  to  overlook  the  implication 
conveyed  by  his  daughter's  mention  of  the  road  in 
which  Dr.  Threlfall  lodged. 

"  It's  nearly  eight  o'clock,"  he  said,  looking  at  his 
watch.  "  I  must  go  down  and  close  the  shop. 
We'd  better  not  wait  supper  for  her." 

His  hesitations  had  been  instantly  resolved  by  this 
last  evidence  as  he  regarded  it,  of  Cecilia's  inten- 
tion. As  Emily  had  held  up  the  podgy  forefinger 
that  was  a  feminine  copy  of  his  own,  a  dreadful  cer- 
tainty had  come  to  him.  It  seemed  to  him,  now  that 
he  had  always  known  that  this  would  happen.  He 
felt  suddenly  tired  and  hopeless.  He  wanted  to 
think  of  some  plan  by  which  a  pitiful  remnant  of 
Cecilia's  affection  for  him  might  yet  be  saved;  or  re- 
stimulated.  If  his  imagination  would  have  obeyed 
him,  he  would  have  devised  pictures  of  romantic 
self-sacrifice  to  win  her  pity,  if  not  her  esteem.  But 
his  thoughts  were  not  under  his  own  control.  De- 
spite his  emphatic  asseverations  that  it  was  all  over, 
his  mind  continued  to  run  in  the  groove  that  had 
been  worn  so  deeply  in  the  course  of  the  past  five 
weeks.  He  could  not  stop  the  tedious  procession  of 
argument  that  still  pleaded  the  cause  or  uncertainty, 
although  he  continued  to  assure  himself  that  he  had 
no  longer  any  doubt. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         81 

"  .  .  .  but  at  her  age;  after  all  these  years;  she'd 
think  of  the  children  if  she  didn't  of  me;  for 
Stephen's  sake,  if  it  were  only  that;  it  isn't  likely  that 
he's  in  love  with  her;  they've  got  their  music  to 
talk  about;  she  has  had  her  flirtations  before,  but  it's 
never  been  serious;  naturally  she  likes  admiration; 
she'd  never  face  the  town;  and  he  must  be  five  years 
younger  than  she  is  —  at  the  very  least ;  why,  at  her 
age  .  .  ." 

He  could  not  stay  the  endless  repetition  in  which 
he  had  found  his  chief  consolation.  The  mechanism 
of  his  imagination  ran  on  with  a  kind  of  ironical 
serenity.  He  could  by  a  great  effort  cover  it  over 
for  a  time  by  a  fierce  concentration  as  the  assertion 
that  he  knew  it  was  all  over,  but  the  moment  his  ef- 
fort was  relaxed,  the  same  movement  slid  into  action 
again. 

Green,  the  assistant,  staggering  through  the  shop 
with  a  load  of  shutters,  wondered  why  his  master 
didn't  get  on  with  the  tidying  up.  His  employer  had 
mercifully  come  down  at  ten  minutes  to  eight  and 
given  the  order  to  close  the  shop,  and  now  he  was 
wasting  precious  time  fiddling  about  behind  the 
counter.  If  he  had  been  prompt,  Green  might  have 
"  got  off  sharp  for  once." 

Later  on,  Green  was  to  remember  that  night  as 
the  first  occasion  on  which  Mr.  Kirkwood  was  "  took 
funny";  and  it  became  the  subject  of  a  composed 
reminiscence  in  the  days  when  Green,  himself,  had 
become  the  master  of  those  same  premises.  But 
that  evening  he  was  anxious  to  get  away  as  soon  as 
possible  in  order  to  keep  an  engagement  with  a  cer- 
tain Miss  Paley  for  whose  society  he  had  an  especial 
predilection;  and  he  displayed  no  kind  of  sympathy 
for  his  employer's  queerness  of  manner.  Neverthe- 
less he  did  notice  and  reported,  partly  by  way  of 


82         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

excuse,  to  Miss  Paley  afterwards,  that  old  Kirkwood 
didn't  seem  able  to  make  up  his  mind  what  to  do 
next.  Couldn't  set  about  clearing  up  —  the  report 
continued,  M  I  'ad  to  do  it  all  in  the  end,  and  then 
I  'ad  no  end  of  a  job  to  get  'im  to  pay  me  my  wages. 
All  mazed  like  he  was." 

"  It's  that  wife  of  'is  is  at  the  bottom  of  it,  I 
lay,"  replied  Miss  Paley. 

Green  couldn't  say  about  that,  but  he'd  seen  her 
go  out  not  two  minutes  before  Mr.  Kirkwood  came 
down,  looking,  he  thought,  much  as  usual. 

Miss  Paley  tossed  her  head.  She  had  noticed  be- 
fore that  Green  was  inclined  to  defend  the  reputa- 
tion of  his  employer's  wife.  "  Makes  eyes  at  every 
man,  I  suppose,"  was  Miss  Paley's  inference.  "  She 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  'erself,  at  'er  age.  Why 
that  great  staring  girl  of  'ers,  the  teacher,  was 
twenty  if  she  was  a  day." 


Stephen  had  inherited  just  so  much  of  his  mother's 
temperament  as  was  sufficient  to  emphasize  his  en- 
joyments and  despondencies  without  disqualifying 
him  for  the  solid  business  of  life.  And  on  the  even- 
ing of  this  day  which  was,  although  he  did  not  realize 
it  either  at  the  time  or  in  retrospect,  the  most  crit- 
ical day  of  his  development,  the  effect  of  his  inherit- 
ance was  peculiarly  noticeable.  He  had  been  greatly 
stirred  not  only  by  his  triumph  in  the  cricket  field 
and  the  subsequent  adulations  he  had  received,  but 
also  and  perhaps  in  an  even  greater  degree  by  the 
sudden  extinction  of  those  high  emotions.  His  sis- 
ters unconsciously  completed  the  work  that  their 
mother  had  begun.  Now  that  the  subject  which  was 
to  them  of  paramount  importance  had  been  plainly 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         83 

displayed  and  the  truth  of  all  their  determinedly 
smothered  suspicions  practically  admitted  by  their 
father  and  brother,  they  came  to  the  discussion  of 
it  with  the  frank  greediness  of  the  half-starved. 
Stephen's  feat  of  the  afternoon  was  for  the  moment 
completely  obliterated  from  their  minds. 

"  Where  do  you  suppose  she's  gone?  "  Hilda  said 
as  soon  as  her  father  had  left  the  room.  She  had 
an  air  at  once  scared  and  rapturous,  as  if  she  gloated 
over  the  danger  of  this  immense  and  threatening  de- 
velopment. 

Emily  pursed  her  mouth  and  profoundly  con- 
templated the  design  of  the  table  cloth.  u  Perhaps 
Stephen  could  tell  us,"  she  remarked  after  a  solemn 
interval. 

"  Why  me?  "  he  replied  irritably. 

"  Do  you  mean  you  don't  know?  "  Hilda  asked. 

"  No  more  than  you  do.  Why  should  I  ?  "  grum- 
bled Stephen. 

Emily  brought  her  gaze  to  bear  upon  him  with  a 
menacing  deliberation.  "  Hasn't  she  told  you  any- 
thing, herself?  "  she  enquired. 

"  Oh !  Lord,  what  is  the  good  of  talking  about 
it?  "  Stephen  protested,  wriggling  under  the  menace 
of  his  sister's  concentrated  attention. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  we  ought  to  talk  about  it," 
Emily  persisted,  threatening  him,  as  it  were,  with 
open  sights. 

"  What  for?  What  good  can  we  do?  "  Stephen 
said  uncomfortably. 

"  You  admit  that  we  ought  to  do  something," 
Emily  continued.  "  You  must  admit  that.  And  if 
you're  sure  there's  something  wrong,  Hilda  and  I 
ought  to  know  about  it.  We  don't  know  what  we 
ought  to  do,  until  we  are  sure." 


84         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"What  could  you  do  if  you  were?"  posed 
Stephen,  trying  to  avoid  the  direct  issue. 

u  Speak  to  her,"  Emily  announced  solemnly,  and 
in  the  wonder  of  that  announcement,  she  temporarily 
released  her  brother,  staring  past  him  at  the  head  of 
the  sofa. 

He  jumped  up  with  a  quick  movement  of  relief, 
as  if  he  had  been  gratefully  unpinned.  "  Well,  I'm 
not  sure,"  he  said,  beginning  to  pace  up  and  down 
the  room.  "  Not  a  bit  sure.  And  even  if  I  was, 
what  earthly  difference  do  you  suppose  it  would  make 
you  speaking  to  her?  When  she's  set  on  anything, 
she  doesn't  care  a  hang  what  we  say,  or  what  we 
think.     You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

Emily  had  lost  her  advantage.  She  couldn't  sight 
with  any  effect  on  a  moving  target,  but  she  main- 
tained her  magnificent  concentration  on  essentials. 

"  You  do  know  she's  set  on  this,  then?"  she 
said. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  Stephen  replied.  "  How  could 
I?" 

"  Well,  you  know  there's  something  in  it,"  Emily 
urged. 

We  all  know  that,  more  or  less,"  Stephen  re- 
turned contemptuously. 

"  I  do  think  you  might  at  least  be  honest  with  us, 
Stee,"  Hilda  put  in.  She  was  getting  a  little  tired 
of  her  sister's  method  of  examination,  and  had  de- 
cided to  try  the  effect  of  a  human  appeal. 

"Well,  aren't  I  being?"  Stephen  remonstrated 
petulantly. 

"  That's  what  Emily  and  I  don't  know,"  Hilda 
explained,  on  a  note  of  conciliation.  "  You  see  we 
aren't  a  bit  sure  if  there's  anything  in  it  at  all, 
really.  I  mean  if  it's  just  one  of  her  usual  flirtations. 
Because  if  it  is,  it  doesn't  matter  much.     But  if  it 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         85 

isn't,  and  you  know  it  isn't,  Emily  and  I  think  you 
ought  to  tell  us,  so  that  we  can  decide  what  ought  to 
be  done  about  it." 

Stephen  paused  in  his  walk,  and  then  feeling  Em- 
ily's gaze  getting  back  into  action,  hastily  said,  "  Oh ! 
for  the  Lord's  sake,  Em,  don't  stare  at  me,  or  I'll  go 
out  of  the  room." 

"  I  didn't  know  I  was,"  Emily  excused  herself,  and 
added,  u  I  don't  seem  able  to  help  it." 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  that  Stephen  had  been 
saved  by  this  diversion,  but  his  sisters  immediately 
swooped  back  again  with  a  fierceness  that  could  not 
be  denied. 

"  You  see  that,  don't  you,  Stee?  "  Hilda  pleaded. 

"  See  what?  "  was  Stephen's  evasion. 

"  That  if  you're  sure  this  is  something  more  than 
a  flirtation.  .  .  ." 

11  But  how  can  I  be  sure?  "  he  interrupted. 

"  Well,  you  are,  aren't  you?  "  put  in  Emily,  point 
blank. 

"Oh!  Lord!"  Stephen  ejaculated,  and  he  sud- 
denly sat  down  on  the  sofa  and  hid  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

11  What  did  she  say  to  you  about  it,  last  night?  " 
Hilda  pursued  him. 

"  Lots  of  things,"  murmured  Stephen,  keeping  his 
face  hidden. 

"  Practically  admitting  that  she  was  in  love  with 
Dr.  Threlfall?  "  asked  Emily. 

Stephen  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Oh!  Em,  isn't  it  awful?"  Hilda  broke  out. 
"What  shall  we  do?" 

"Does  she  mean  to  go  off  with  him?"  Emily 
continued,  wallowing  in  horror. 

"  I've  no  idea,"  Stephen  said. 

"  Did  you  know  she  was  going  to  see  him  to- 


86         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

night?  "  Hilda  went  on.  They  had  got  him  down, 
now;  and  meant  to  squeeze  him  dry. 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  Stephen  said. 

44  But  you  thought  she  might?  " 

44  No,  I  didn't." 

"  Was  she  at  the  match,  this  afternoon?  " 

Stephen  nodded. 

44  With  him?" 

He  nodded  again. 

44  Did  they  speak  to  you?  " 

Stephen  could  bear  it  no  longer.  44  I've  told  you 
everything  I  can,"  he  said,  getting  up.  44  I've  told 
you  that  I'm  afraid  it  is  more  than  a  sort  of  flirta- 
tion; and  that's  all  I  know  for  certain.  Now,  shut 
up.  You  can  speak  to  her  if  you  like  when  she 
comes  in,  but  you  needn't  say  I've  told  you  anything 
because  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  haven't.  And  it's 
jolly  well  a  quarter  past  eight,  and  time  we  had 
supper.     Why  doesn't  Ada  bring  it  in?" 

44  Her  mother's  ill  again,"  Emily  explained. 
44  Hilda  and  I've  got  to  get  it.  It's  only  cold  meat. 
What  do  you  mean  by  you've  told  us  everything  you 
can,  Stephen?  Why  can't  you  tell  us  all  you 
know?  " 

Stephen  made  a  grimace.  44  I'll  go  down  and  see 
if  dad's  ready,"  he  said.     44  Buck  up!  " 

As  he  left  the  room  he  heard  the  quick  insurgence 
of  his  sisters'  eager  whispering.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  sound  of  their  voices  that  produced  the 
same  effect  at  once  scared  and  rapturous  that  had 
been  revealed  in  Hilda's  face  when  she  had  turned 
away  from  the  window. 

Stephen  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  was  dis- 
gusted,—  with  himself  for  having  betrayed  some- 
thing of  his  mother's  confidence;  with  his  sisters  for 
having  wrung  the  secret  out  of  him.     He  paused 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         87 

for  a  moment  on  the  landing  and  then  went  up  to 
his  own  room  instead  of  down  to  the  shop.  He 
had  a  vague  intention  of  "  thinking  the  whole  thing 
out."  He  even  began  to  frame  the  beginning  of  a 
conversation  with  his  mother.  But  when  he  was 
alone  in  his  attic,  a  feeling  of  weariness  came  over 
him.  He  threw  himself  down  on  his  bed,  and  in- 
stantly his  thoughts  forsook  the  subject  that  so  per- 
sistently intrigued  the  minds  of  his  father  and  his 
sisters,  presenting  in  its  place  the  pleasant  memory 
of  his  own  successes.  He  went  over  again  his  tri- 
umphs of  the  afternoon,  and  had  a  brilliant  and  con- 
vincing vision  of  the  report  of  his  innings  being 
carried  to  little  Margaret  Weatherley.  She  would 
be  certain  to  hear  of  it,  and  the  knowledge  must 
surely  confirm  him  in  her  favor.  Perhaps  she  would 
guess  that  he  had,  in  a  way,  made  those  runs  for  her. 
He  was  walking  in  the  clouds  when  he  heard  the 
impatient  tinkle  of  the  little  bell  calling  him  down 
to  supper.  The  shrill  imperative  sound  of  it 
brought  him  back  with  an  unpleasant  jerk  to  the 
contemplation  of  the  miserable  reality  that  awaited 
him.  He  frowned  moodily,  as  he  washed  his  hands 
and  face.  He  was  in  no  hurry  to  get  down.  Why 
couldn't  his  mother  have  behaved  decently? 

8 

They  were  very  quiet  at  supper.  Some  definite 
change  had  taken  place  in  their  relations,  since  they 
had  been  together  in  that  room  an  hour  before.  #  It 
would  have  been  impossible,  now,  for  Emily  or  Hilda 
to  have  persisted  in  the  demand  for  plain  statement 
that  had  been  interrupted  by  their  mother's  extraor- 
dinary departure. 

The  principal  cause  for  this  change,  so  far  as  it 


88         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

could  be  analyzed,  was  in  the  behavior  of  Mr. 
Kirkwood.  In  ordinary  circumstances  the  girls 
would  have  regarded  their  father's  abstraction  and 
hesitations  as  nothing  more  than  a  slight  exaggera- 
tion of  the  "  absent-minded  "  manner,  he  sometimes 
adopted;  to-night,  they  noted  his  every  eccentricity 
as  if  it  had  a  peculiar  and  alarming  significance. 
When  he  dropped  his  fork,  and  seemed  unable  to 
decide  whether  or  not  to  pick  it  up  again,  they 
looked  at  each  other  and  at  Stephen  with  raised 
eyebrows,  surreptitiously  conveying  the  implication 
that  there  was  something  ominous  and  sinister  in 
these  evidences  of  his  distress.  When  they  directly 
addressed  their  father,  they  spoke  in  the  cajoling 
voice  of  one  who  humors  an  invalid. 

Stephen  was  irritated  by  his  sisters'  air  of  tragedy. 
His  mind  was  still  eager  to  luxuriate  in  the  thought 
of  himself  as  hero;  and  all  this  elaborate  cringing 
to  the  shadow  of  disaster  indicated,  in  his  opinion, 
a  merely  feminine  love  of  emotion.  The  sense  of 
his  grievance  returned  to  him,  and  directly  sup- 
per was  over  he  announced  that  he  had  "  a  heap  of 
work  to  do,"  and  went  back  to  his  own  room. 

His  father  took  no  notice  of  him.  He  had  not 
once  addressed  him  directly  since  he  had  come  in. 
"  Poor  old  father,"  Stephen  reflected.  "  It  is 
frightfully  rough  on  him.  I  wonder  how  much  he 
knows?  " 

He  settled  down  to  work  without  any  hesitation, 
but  his  reading  only  engaged  a  small  part  of  his 
attention.  He  was  reading  history,  and  all  the 
movement  of  it  was  colored  by  the  elation  of  his 
own  recent  success.  Every  now  and  again  he  would 
raise  his  eyes  from  his  book,  and  indulge  in  a  brief 
orgy  of  day  dreaming. 

It  had  been  after  nine  when  he  came  upstairs,  and 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         89 

he  was  astonished  to  find  that  it  was  a  quarter  to 
eleven  when  he  heard  a  tap  at  his  door.  At  first  he 
thought  it  might  be  his  mother,  and  then  he  heard 
Hilda's  voice,  asking  if  he  had  gone  to  bed. 

"  No ;  come  in,"  he  called  out,  and  Hilda  entered 
with  an  expression  of  portentous  gravity. 

11  What  are  we  going  to  do,  Stee?  "  she  asked  ner- 
vously. 

"  We  can't  do  anything  to-night,"  he  said  irri- 
tably. 

"  We  can't  go  to  bed  till  she  comes  in,"  Hilda 
said. 

"Oh!  Hasn't  she  come  in?"  he  replied  more 
gently.  "  I  didn't  know  what  you  meant.  Where's 
father?" 

"  Well,  he  went  upstairs,  soon  after  you  did,"  she 
said.  "  But  he  hasn't  gone  to  bed.  He's  been 
walking  up  and  down  the  room  all  the  time." 

"  Is  Em  down  there?"  Stephen  asked. 

"  Of  course,"  Hilda  said.  "  We  don't  know 
what  we  ought  to  do." 

"  I'll  come  down,"  Stephen  volunteered.  He  was 
impressed,  at  last.  The  seeds  of  tragedy  that  his 
sisters  had  been  so  sedulously  nursing,  had  suddenly 
flowered.  He  was  newly  aware  of  something 
ominous  about  his  mother's  absence.  Subcon- 
sciously, he  had  been  supported  by  her  promise  of 
the  night  before.  She  had  said  that  she  would  not 
go  away  yet,  not  for  a  month  or  two;  and  without 
having  realized  the  grounds  for  his  confidence  he 
had  relied  on  that  promise  of  hers.  Now,  it  seemed 
probable  that  she  had  already  broken  it. 

Stephen's  face  was  not  less  anxious  than  his  sis- 
ters' when  he  confronted  them  in  the  sitting-room. 

"  I  say,  she  hasn't  taken  —  any  things  away,  has 
she?  "  he  asked.     "  Have  you  looked?  " 


90         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"  We  couldn't,"  Hilda  replied.  "  Father's  been 
up  there  all  the  time.  But  she  couldn't  have  taken 
much,  anyway.  Not  boxes  or  anything  —  we  should 
have  heard  her.     Besides,  she  hadn't  time  to  pack." 

"  I  expect  she'll  be  in  directly,"  Stephen  said  more 
cheerfully.  "  She  was  rather  annoyed  with  me  this 
afternoon,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  I  daresay  this  is 
only  one  of  her  tantrums." 

"  What  was  she  annoyed  with  you  about?  "  Em- 
ily asked. 

"  Nothing  particular.  The  usual  sort  of  thing," 
Stephen  procrastinated. 

For  a  few  seconds  no  one  spoke  again,  and 
Stephen's  attention  was  drawn  to  the  sound  of  the 
slow  footsteps  that  paced  backwards  and  forwards 
overhead. 

"  He's  been  going  on  like  that  for  about  two 
hours,  now,"  Emily  remarked. 

"  He  ought  to  go  to  bed,"  Stephen  said.  "  No 
use  his  sitting  up." 

"  Shall  I  go  up  and  tell  him  that  we're  sitting 
up?  "  Hilda  suggested. 

Stephen  hesitated.  "  Perhaps  I'd  better  go,"  he 
said  after  a  moment's  thought. 

"  Perhaps  you'd  better,"  Emily  agreed.  u  Just 
say  we'll  wait  up." 

"  All  serene,"  Stephen  said. 

He  went  quickly  out  of  the  room,  but  on  the  stairs 
his  mind  misgave  him.  Suppose  his  father  were  to 
ask  him  any  direct  question,  what  could  he  say?  He 
must  pretend  complete  ignorance;  that  was  the  only 
possible  course  to  take. 

He  stood  outside  his  father's  door  for  a  full 
minute  before  he  knocked,  listening  to  the  slow  mel- 
ancholy thudding  of  the  footsteps  that  plodded  end- 
lessly backwards  and  forwards.     Seven  steps,  then 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         91 

a  pause  at  the  turn,  and  seven  steps  back  again. 
They  ceased  with  a  startling  abruptness  when 
Stephen  knocked. 

It's  only  me,  father,"  Stephen  said  in  a  timid 
voice,  but  it  apparently  reached  his  father's  under- 
standing for  the  steps  instantly  resumed  their  mo- 
notonous burden. 

"  I  say,  father,"  Stephen  began  again,  and  then 
realizing  the  impossibility  of  carrying  on  a  conver- 
sation through  the  thickness  of  a  closed  door,  he 
turned  the  handle,  opened  the  door  a  few  inches 
and  continued,  "  I  say,  father,  we'll  sit  up,  the  girls 
and  me.     Hadn't  you  better  go  to  bed?  " 

Mr.  Kirkwood  stopped  in  his  walk.  He  was  near 
the  end  of  his  beat,  close  to  the  wall  at  the  bed  head, 
and  he  paused  there  with  his  back  to  Stephen,  as  if 
he  were  waiting  for  some  further  speech  from  him. 

Stephen  could  think  of  nothing  more  to  say.  He 
found  that  his  hand,  still  resting  on  the  white  porce- 
lain door  knob,  was  cold  and  wet,  and  he  wiped  it 
on  his  jacket.  He  was  afraid.  His  father  looked 
so  queer  standing  there  with  his  face  to  the  wall. 
Was  it  safe  to  leave  him  alone?  He  might  do 
something  awful,  if  he  wasn't  watched. 

"  I  say,  father,"  he  tried  again,  making  a  great 
effort.         Could  I  speak  to  you  a  moment?" 

The  familiar  phrase  seemed  to  recall  Mr.  Kirk- 
wood to  a  sense  of  his  surroundings.  He  took  one 
more  step  towards  the  wall,  as  if  some  mechanical 
impulse  forbade  him  to  turn  without  completing  his 
beat,  and  then  came  half  way  back  across  the  room 
to  where  his  son  was  standing. 

Stephen  was  surprised  to  find  that  his  father 
looked  much  as  usual.  He  often  responded  to  that 
request  for  an  interview, —  especially  if  it  fore- 
shadowed a  petition  for  money, —  with  just  such  a 


92         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

look  of  preoccupation  with  more  important  affairs 
as  he  was  wearing  now. 

The  shock  came  when  the  little  bookseller  began 
to  speak.  He  began  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence,  as  if  he  were  continuing  a  long  conversa- 
tion. And  he  spoke  with  a  passionate  air  of  dem- 
onstrating an  argument,  quite  new  in  his  son's  ex- 
perience of  him. 

"...  but  not  the  only  explanation,"  he  said  in 
a  low  rapid  voice.  "  For  instance,  what  more  likely 
than  that  she's  gone  up  to  her  father's.  Something 
had  put  her  out,  no  doubt.  How  should  I  know 
what?  She  was  in  one  of  her  quiet  moods  before 
Stephen  came  in.  I'd  noticed  that  at  tea-time  .  .  ." 
Father!  "  Stephen  interrupted  him,  in  a  pained 
voice.  It  was  horrible  to  hear  his  father  talking 
about  him  as  if  he  were  not  there  confronting, 
almost  touching,  him.  "  Shall  I  go  up  to  grand- 
father's and  see  if  she's  there?  "  he  went  on,  speak- 
ing fast  and  rather  loud.  "  We  hadn't  thought  of 
that.  I  could  easily  pop  up  there  and  back  in  twenty 
minutes.  And  if  she's  there  I'll  bring  her  back  with 
me.     Shall  I  do  that,  father?  " 

Mr.  Kirkwood  stared  hard  at  his  son's  face  for  a 
moment,  and  then  nodded  emphatically. 

"  All  right,  I'll  go  at  once,"  Stephen  shouted  re- 
assuringly; instinctively  attempting  to  reach  the 
deeply  secluded  place  in  which  his  father's  spirit  had 
taken  refuge^ 

"  I'll  send  the  girls  up  to  keep  you  company,"  he 
added  as  he  left  the  room. 

But  his  father  had  already  reentered  the  deadly 
solitude  of  his  monotonous,  trudging  walk.  He  was 
afraid  of  the  bleak  world  of  bitter  reality.  For  the 
present,  he  desired  feverishly  to  hold  his  life  at  that 
period  in  which  he  could  still  cling  fondly  to  the  un- 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         93 

certain  joys  of  hope.  His  argument  had  gone  one 
step  further  leaping  the  memory  of  that  fatal  mo- 
ment in  which  he  had  accepted  the  horrible  truth. 
The  moment  that  he  was  determined  at  all  costs  to 
obliterate. 


11  I'm  going  round  to  grandfather's,"  was 
Stephen's  report  to  his  sisters.  "  We  forgot  she 
might  be  there.  But,  I  say,  I  don't  think  you'd  bet- 
ter leave  father  alone.  He's  awfully  funny  some- 
how. He  talked  as  if  I  wasn't  there.  I  told  him 
I'd  send  you  up  for  company.  You'd  better  both 
go.  I  left  the  door  open.  He  won't  answer  when 
you  knock.     I'm  off  now." 

He  delivered  his  message  breathlessly.  He  had 
put  on  his  cap,  and  once  or  twice  as  he  spoke,  he 
strained  it  further  down  on  his  head  as  if  he  antic- 
ipated going  out  into  a  gale  of  wind.  He  wanted 
to  avoid  any  further  questions  about  his  father's 
condition;  but  beyond  that,  he  had  a  feeling  of  tre- 
mendous urgency,  as  if  the  least  delay  on  his  part 
might  lead  to  some  irredeemable  disaster. 

The  streets  were  still  fairly  full  of  people.  Up 
at  the  other  end  of  Long  Causeway,  the  marketplace 
was  still  noisy  with  Saturday  night  traffic.  Stephen 
could  hear  the  hoarse  shoutings  of  the  men  at  the 
stalls,  selling  off  at  tremendous  sacrifices  all  the  per- 
ishable food  that  it  would  not  be  safe  to  keep  over 
Sunday.  But  as  he  came  out  on  to  the  pavement, 
one  of  the  new  electric  trams  clattered  by,  packed 
with  women  of  the  poorer  class,  going  home  to  the 
railwaymen's  suburb  down  at  New  England.  That 
was  Stephen's  direction  also,  and  he  hesitated  for  a 
moment  whether  he  would  not  run  after  and  board 
the  tram  —  they  never  cared  how  much  they  were 


94         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

overloaded  on  Saturday  night  —  but  then  he  thought 
of  the  endless  stoppages  and  delays  that  he  would 
have  to  endure  and  decided  that  it  would  be  quicker 
to  run.  He  strained  his  cap  down  again  with  the 
same  nervous  movement  he  had  twice  repeated  in 
the  sitting-room,  and  set  off  at  once.  He  was  jus- 
tified in  his  estimate  of  the  tram's  slowness.  He 
passed  it  at  the  corner  of  Westgate  and  Park  Road, 
and  it  never  caught  him  again. 

He  was  glad  to  be  going  to  his  grandfather's  in 
Stamford  Street  instead  of  to  Dr.  Threlfall's  lodg- 
ings in  the  Lincoln  Road.  He  saw  his  grandfather 
very  seldom,  but  he  was  always  easy  to  talk  to. 
That  other  visit  would  have  demanded  considerable 
moral  courage.  Suppose  she  had  been  there,  what 
could  he  have  said  before  Dr.  Threlfall?  One 
couldn't  lose  one's  temper  with  a  man  like  that;  one 
couldn't  very  well  argue  with  him.  He  had  such  an 
air  of  belonging  to  the  ruling  classes.  It  must  be  all 
his  mother's  fault.  She  must  have  encouraged  him. 
But  it  was  any  odds  that  he  wasn't.  .  .  .  Stephen 
could  not  even  in  his  thoughts,  say  "  in  love."  It 
was  too  grotesque,  too  horrible  to  suggest  that 
Threlfall  was  in  love  with  Stephen's  mother.  Love 
in  this  connection  was  a  word  sacred  to  such  bright 
and  beautiful  ardors  as  he  might  one  day  suffer  for 
Margaret  Weatherley.  In  relation  to  his  mother 
and  Dr.  Threlfall,  the  word  had  a  coarse  and  rather 
disreputable  significance.  But  just  suppose.  .  .  . 
No,  he  wouldn't  even  suppose  so  repulsive  an  idea. 
His  mother  had  certainly  spent  the  evening  with 
her  father  in  Stamford  Street.  Stephen  would  find 
her  there  and  persuade  her  to  come  home  with  him. 
After  that  it  would  be  all  right.  They  were  all 
willing  enough  to  get  back  to  the  old  terms  again. 
She  must  see  that  that  was  the  only  thing  to  do. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         95 

It  was  a  warm  night  and  Stephen  was  wet  with 
perspiration  when  he  reached  No.  69  Stamford 
Street  and  looking  up  at  the  first-floor  window  of 
the  dingy  little  house,  saw  with  relief  that  there  was 
still  a  light  in  his  grandfather's  room.  The  window 
was  wide  open  but  he  could  hear  no  sound  of  voices. 
He  had  meant  to  call  "  mother  "  but  the  portent  of 
that  silence  influenced  him  to  substitute  "  grand- 
father." If,  after  all,  she  were  not  there,  and  the 
people  of  the  house  heard  him,  they  might  think  it 
funny  that  he  should  be  going  about  the  town  at  a 
quarter  to  twelve  looking  for  his  mother. 

He  called  up  to  the  window  in  a  secret,  suppressed 
voice,  but  the  response  was  instantaneous.  He 
heard  a  chair  pushed  hastily  back  and  almost  im- 
mediately old  Edwardes  appeared  at  the  window. 

"Is  that  you,  Stephen?"  he  replied  softly. 
"  Thought  I  recognized  your  step  coming  up  the 
road.     What  do  you  want?" 

"  Is  mother  there?  "  Stephen  whispered. 

"  Lord,  no,"  his  grandfather  replied. 

11  Hasn't  she  been  here,  all  the  evening?  " 

"  Haven't  seen  her  for  more  than  a  week,"  old 
Edwardes  said.     "Why?" 

Stephen  felt  as  if  he  had  been  suddenly  doused 
with  cold  water.  "  May  I  come  up,  grandfather?  " 
he  said  with  a  shiver.     "  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"  I'll  come  down  and  let  you  in,"  his  grandfather 
responded  at  once ;  and  a  few  seconds  later,  Stephen 
heard  the  lock  of  the  front  door  gently  turned. 

"  They're  all  in  bed,  and  asleep,  probably,"  old 
Edwardes  whispered  as  soon  as  the  door  had  been 
opened.  "  Don't  make  a  noise,  boy."  He  had  a 
candle  in  his  hand,  and  paused  on  the  threshold, 
staring  at  his  grandson's  face.  u  Has  she  gone?  " 
and  then  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  put  a  hand  on 


96         AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

Stephen's  shoulder,  drew  him  into  the  passage,  cau- 
tiously closed  the  door,  and  pointed  to  the  stairs. 
"  Mind  the  third  step  up,"  he  said.  "  The  tread's 
broken." 

11  So  she's  gone,  eh?  "  he  repeated,  as  soon  as  he 
and  his  grandson  were  safe  in  the  neat  little  bed-sit- 
ting room.  He  spoke  in  a  low,  clear  roice,  that 
Stephen  unconsciously  intimated  when  he  replied : 

u  Well,  we  don't  know.  We  thought  she  might 
be  here." 

Edwardes  shook  his  head  and  began  to  fill  his 
pipe.  "  Let's  have  the  facts,"  he  said.  "  I  shall 
know,  then.  Don't  raise  your  voice.  I  can  hear  as 
well  as  ever,  thank  God." 

Stephen  gave  the  facts  as  well  as  he  could,  omit- 
ting, however,  all  mention  of  his  mother's  interview 
with  him  the  night  before  and  of  their  quarrel  in  the 
afternoon. 

"  Aye !  "  Edwards  murmured  when  his  grandson 
had  apparently  finished.  "  Have  you  ever  seen  him ; 
Threlfall,  I  mean?" 

"  I  met  him  this  afternoon  on  the  cricket  field," 
Stephen  said. 

His  grandfather  thrust  out  his  lower  lip,  smoking 
steadily  and  gazing  down  at  the  empty  grate. 
"  He's  one  of  us,"  he  remarked  thoughtfully. 
"  She  was  bound  to  go  to  him,  sooner  or  later. 
I've  known  it  for  six  weeks  or  more.  They  were 
here  together  just  over  a  week  ago,  and  I  talked  it 
over  with  her  afterwards.  She's  as  headstrong  as 
ever.  She  would  marry  your  father,  though  I  did 
all  I  could  to  stop  her.  This  time,  I'm  not  so  sure 
that  I  want  to.  It's  hard  for  you  to  understand, 
at  your  age,  being  her  son  and  all;  but  the  wonder 
to  me  is  not  that  she  should  be  kicking  over  the 
traces  now,  but  that  she  shouldn't  have  done  it  long 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         97 

ago.  I  fancy  it's  only  you  that  have  kept  her, 
Stephen." 

"  Me?  "  Stephen  ejaculated. 

14  Aye,  you,"  his  grandfather  said.  u  I  suppose 
you  don't  feel  that  you  were  worth  it." 

"  I  don't  understand,  grandfather,"  Stephen  re- 
turned. 

11  Never  having  been  either  a  father  or  a  mother 
you  probably  wouldn't,"  Edwardes  remarked. 
"  And  I  can't  explain  to  you  a  thing  you've  never 
felt."  He  paused  before  he  added.  "  Have  you 
been  failing  her,  lately?  " 

"I  —  I  didn't  want  her  to  —  to  go  away,  of 
course,"  Stephen  said. 

"Then  you  knew  all  about  it?"  Edwardes  en- 
quired keenly. 

11  She  told  me  a  little  about  it  last  night,"  Stephen 
admitted,  "  but  we  all  knew  there  was  something 
wrong  —  before  that." 

His  grandfather  turned  and  looked  him  straight 
in  the  eyes  as  he  fired  his  next  question. 

u  You  haven't  been  falling  in  love,  yourself?  "  he 
asked. 

11  Oh!  no,  grandfather;  rather  not,"  Stephen  pro- 
tested, blushing  vividly. 

"Quite  sure?"  old  Edwardes  pressed  him. 

"  Quite,"  Stephen  affirmed. 

"Well,  does  she  think  you  have?" 

"Oh!  no;  how  could  she?" 

"  All  the  same,  she  probably  knows,"  the  old  man 
said  enigmatically. 

"Knows  what?"  Stephen  enquired,  greatly 
puzzled. 

"  That  there's  some  difference  in  you ;  that  you 
haven't  been  giving  her  your  best  attention,  or  de- 
votion, or  something  like  that.     She  must  be  first. 


98  AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

YouVe  just  got  to  the  age  when  you're  sure  to  be 
casting  sheep's  eyes  at  some  girl  or  another." 

Stephen's  face  flamed  again.  "  But,"  he  began 
to  protest. 

His  grandfather  interrupted  him.^ 

"  I'm  not  putting  the  blame  of  this  on  to  you,"  he 
said.  "  It  was  bound  to  happen  sooner  or  later. 
You  couldn't  be  expected  to  help  yourself.  Better 
that  you  shouldn't.  But  if  I  know  anything  of 
Cecilia  —  and  if  I  don't  know  her,  no  one  does  or 
ever  will  —  she's  noticed  some  difference  in  you  the 
last  week  or  two,  that    .  .  ." 

u  Oh !  no,  not  as  long  ago  as  that,"  Stephen  put 
in.  "  If  there  was  anything  at  all,  it  was  only  yes- 
terday." 

u  What  happened  yesterday,  then?"  his  grand- 
father asked. 

11  Nothing,  really,"  Stephen  protested. 

"  You're  mighty  red  about  it,  anyway,"  old  Ed- 
wardes  commented. 

Stephen  fidgetted  impatiently.  "  Oh,  does  it  mat- 
ter about  me,  grandfather?  "  he  asked. 

11  Aye,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  does,"  the  old  man 
replied.  "  I  can't  help  thinking  that  somehow  or 
another,  you've  put  the  finish  to  this  affair  of  hers. 
However,  in  another  way,  it's  of  no  account.  What 
we  have  to  do  is  to  see  that  she  doesn't  make  too  big 
a  fool  of  herself  and  him.  We'd  better  find  her, 
and  there's  only  one  place  we  need  look  for  her  and 
that's  at  Threlfall's  rooms  in  the  Lincoln  Road.  Fll 
come,  with  you,  boy.  We've  the  excuse  that  your 
father's  ill  —  ill  enough  for  our  purpose,  in  any 
case.     Come  along." 

He  got  up,  knocked  out  his  pipe,  took  down  his 
soft  felt  hat  from  the  wall,  lighted  the  candle,  and 
then  turned  out  the  gas  and  led  the  way  downstairs. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER         99 

Stephen  followed  him  with  the  comfortable  feel- 
ing of  one  who  goes  under  the  command  of  a  trusted 
leader  and  expert.  His  grandfather  was,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  town,  nothing  more  than  a  piano-tuner. 
Indeed  he  was  not  even  a  satisfactory  piano-tuner; 
for  he  was  unquestionably  eccentric  and  his  stand- 
ing did  not  justify  eccentricity,  a  peculiarity  only 
justifiable  by  wealth,  position  or  great  fame.  Yet 
even  his  critics  admitted  —  some  of  them  solely  by 
their  omissions  —  that  there  was  an  effect  of  breed 
about  old  Edwardes.  He  was  shabby,  but  he  was 
always  clean;  and  he  had  an  air  of  authority  with 
the  shop-keepers  that  compelled  an  unwilling  respect. 
If  he  had  not  been  so  morose  and  self-centered,  he 
might  have  found  a  few  friends. 

He  hardly  spoke  to  his  grandson  as  they  made 
their  way  back  towards  the  town,  entering  the  Lin- 
coln Road  from  its  upper,  comparatively  poverty- 
stricken  end.  As  a  road  it  exhibited  three  definite 
stages.  For  the  first  quarter  of  a  mile  out  of  the 
town,  it  had  all  the  marks  of  a  first  class  residential 
suburb.  The  houses  were  detached,  stood  in  their 
own  grounds  sometimes  well  back  from  the  road, 
and  were  the  "  residences  "  of  the  town's  more  pros- 
perous professional  men.  James  Dickinson  the 
builder  lived  there.  But  further  up  the  style  stead- 
ily declined.  The  houses  were  smaller,  closer  to  the 
road,  and  nearer  together,  rapidly  merging  into  that 
phase  of  semi-detachment  which  led  on  to  the  disaster 
of  villas  in  a  row  and  ultimately,  at  the  New  Eng- 
land end,  into  workmen's  cottages. 

Dr.  Threlfali's  lodgings  were  about  half  a  mile 
out  of  the  town  in  one  of  the  transition  villas  — 
semi-detached,  but  still  with  a  good  ten  yards  of 
privacy  between  them  and  the  road,  an  endowment 
that  was  emphasized  by  the  protection  of  hedges  in 


ioo       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

laurel,  privet  or  yew  behind  dwarf  walls  with  an 
"  ornamental  "  iron  railing.  Many  of  the  gardens 
boasted  lime,  laburnum,  acacia  or  sweet-chestnut 
trees,  and  the  effect  on  a  summer  night  was  pleas- 
antly suggestive  of  greenery  and  seclusion. 

11  It's  number  123  ;  the  house  is  called  '  Yaxley,1  ' 
Stephen  said  as  they  came  into  the  odor  of  respec- 
tability.    "Do    you   know   it,    grandfather?     I've 
never  been  there." 

11  I  know  it,"  Edwardes  returned,  and  added  bit- 
terly, "  I've  tuned  the  piano  there  for  twenty  years. 
There's  an  old  Collard  in  Threlfall's  room  —  not  a 
bad  instrument,  still.     This  is  the  house." 

Stephen  could  just  read  the  name  "  Yaxley  "  in 
elaborate  capitals,  by  the  light  of  the  street-lamp. 
The  gold  of  the  lettering  was  tarnished  and  chipped, 
and  the  gate,  itself,  in  urgent  need  of  re-painting. 
His  grandfather  pushed  it  open  with  a  gesture  that 
was  almost  violent,  and  when  they  had  passed 
through,  let  it  swing  back  by  its  own  weight.  As 
they  walked  up  the  ten  yards  of  path  that  imitated 
the  pretentiousness  of  a  "  drive,"  they  were  accom- 
panied by  the  sound  of  the  gate's  accelerated  click- 
ing as  the  latch  passed  and  repassed  the  post  with  a 
swiftly  diminishing  beat. 

It  occurred  to  Stephen  that  his  grandfather  was 
deliberately  making  all  the  noise  he  could  to  warn 
his  daughter  and  Dr.  Threlfall  of  the  coming  in- 
vasion of  their  solitude;  and  old  Edwardes's  further 
approach  served  to  confirm  this  suspicion.  He 
tramped  with  a  somewhat  unnecessary  harshness  on 
the  recently  turned  gravel  of  the  path,  and  when  he 
had  reached  the  house,  he  passed  the  front  door,  and 
then  tapped  lightly  on  the  "  French  "  window  of  the 
ground-floor  room  beyond.  There  was  a  light  in 
that  room,  but  the  blind  was  down. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTH  Eli        101 

As  they  waited  for  a  reply,  Stephen  could  hear 
the  faintly  startled  whispering  of  disturbed  voices. 
Nearly  a  minute  must  have  passed  before  the  blind 
flew  suddenly  up,  and  the  figure  of  Dr.  Threlfall 
appeared  silhouetted  against  the  light  of  the  room. 
He  paused  for  another  few  seconds,  peering  out,  be- 
fore he  opened  the  window. 

"  It's  all  right,"  murmured  old  Edwardes. 
"  Stephen's  here.  He  has  come  with  a  message. 
His  father's  in  a  queer  way." 

He  did  not  ask  if  Cecilia  were  there.  Perhaps  he 
had  seen  her  although  to  Stephen  she  was  still  invis- 
ible, sitting  on  the  sofa  behind  the  lamp  on  the  fur- 
ther side  of  the  room.  Or  it  may  be  that  her 
father's  sensitive  ear  had  recognized  her  voice  dur- 
ing the  hushed  colloquy  that  had  preceded  Threl- 
fall's  appearance  at  the  window. 

1  You'd  better  come  in,"  Threlfall  said  with  a 
quick  glance  over  his  shoulder;  and  he  moved  aside 
to  let  old  Edwardes  and  Stephen  enter,  shutting  the 
French  window  behind  them,  and  redrawing  the 
blind. 


10 

"What  is  it?  What's  the  matter?"  Cecilia 
asked  calmly. 

Stephen  looked  at  her  with  an  ashamed  and  hesi- 
tating curiosity.  In  the  course  of  the  last  few  hours 
the  relationship  between  them  had  been  obscurely 
changed.  She  was  no  longer  above  criticism.  In- 
deed, at  this  moment  he  was  aware  of  a  strong  feeling 
of  resentment  against  her  —  a  feeling  that  was  in- 
tensified by  her  present  appearance.  She  looked  so 
happy;  more  than  happy  —  elated.  He  had  seen 
her  in  that  state  of  exaltation  before  when  she  had 


isyx\:\tftf)WPERFECT  MOTHER 

had  a  success  at  some  concert.  She  would  come 
home  flushed  and  brilliant,  to  entertain  them  with  the 
story  of  her  triumph.  Stephen  had  worshiped  her 
on  those  occasions,  but,  now,  her  happiness  annoyed 
and  hurt  him.  He  remembered  his  father's  misery 
and  his  own  sisters'  anxiety.  What  right  had  she, 
he  thought,  to  disregard  them  all  as  she  had  done? 
Also,  some  sense  within  him  told  Stephen  that  there 
was  a  vital  difference  between  the  woman  who  had 
walked  out  of  the  house  in  Long  Causeway  that 
evening  and  the  woman  who  was  sitting  on  the  sofa 
with  that  strange  look  of  exaltation.  What  had 
caused  that  difference,  he  dared  not  ask  himself,  as 
yet.  But  the  effect  of  it  was  to  cut  her  off  from 
him  and  change  their  relations.  He  might  have  ex- 
perienced much  the  same  sense  of  bewildering  inex- 
plicable loss,  if  the  lover  he  had  adored  had  proved 
to  be  the  mistress  of  another  man. 

He  looked  down  at  the  carpet,  sulkily,  fumbling 
with  his  cap,  as  he  answered  his  mother's  question. 

"  We  didn't  know  where  you  were,"  he  said. 

"  And  now  that  you  do  know  ...  ?  "  she  re- 
plied lightly. 

"  Are  you  coming  back?  "  Stephen  muttered. 

Cecilia  shook  her  head. 

Old  Edwardes  had  sat  down  in  a  chair  at  one  end 
of  the  center  table  and  Threlfall  stood  near  him. 
Both  of  them  had  an  air  of  waiting,  of  definitely  re- 
fusing to  interfere  until  this  clash  between  mother 
and  son  reached  a  climax  that  directly  evoked  the 
need  for  their  intervention. 

"Why  not?"  Stephen  asked,  still  in  the  same 
sulky,  abashed  tone.  He  thought  that  she  was  tak- 
ing an  unfair  advantage  of  him;  that  he  should  not 
have  been  called  upon  to  make  his  appeal  in  the 
presence  of  his  grandfather  and  a  stranger. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        103 

"  You'll  know  some  day,  Stephen,"  Cecilia  replied, 
more  gently. 

"  But,  mother,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you're 
not  coming  back  with  me  —  now?  "  he  protested. 

44  I  do,"  she  said. 

He  frowned  and  fidgetted.  "  But  —  you  must," 
he  grumbled. 

Cecilia  shook  her  head.  Her  expression  was  one 
of  slightly  contemptuous  amusement. 

Old  Edwardes  cleared  his  throat  and  made  a 
movement  as  if  he  were  about  to  speak,  and  then  ap- 
parently changing  his  mind  he  leant  a  little  forward, 
and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands. 

44  Why  not?  "  Stephen  repeated. 

14  I  explained  everything  to  you  last  night,"  Cecilia 
said.  "  Have  you  forgotten  already?  Surely  you 
don't  want  me  to  say  it  all  over  again." 

44 1  haven't  forgotten  that  you  promised  me  you'd 
wait  at  least  a  month,"  Stephen  grumbled. 

44  So  many  things  have  happened  since  then," 
Cecilia  said,  and  looked  at  her  lover.  Stephen 
saw  the  signal  of  happiness  that  passed  between 
them  and  it  aggravated  his  feeling  of  grievance. 

44  You've  no  right  to  go  away,"  he  said  with  a 
greater  boldness  than  he  had  yet  shown,  and  his 
frown  deepened  into  a  scowl. 

44  I've  a  right  to  live  my  own  life,"  his  mother  re- 
plied without  anger.  "  I've  devoted  all  the  best  of 
it  to  you.  Now,  I'm  going  to  be  frankly  selfish. 
You  needn't  use  all  the  conventional  arguments, 
Stephen.  I  know  them  all  much  better  than  you 
do,  and  they  don't  affect  me  one  little  bit.  You 
must  try  and  think  of  me  as  an  individual  in  future, 
instead  of  as  a  slave  to  that  shop  and  house  in  Long 
Causeway.  I'm  emancipated.  I've  become  a  hu- 
man being,  like  yourself." 


104       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"  We  know  it  must  be  very  hard  for  you  to  un- 
derstand, Stephen,"  Threlfall  put  in,  and  his  gentle 
voice  had  the  same  effect  of  tranquil  authority  that 
it  had  had  on  the  cricket-field.  "  But  you  must  try 
to  see  things  from  another  point  of  view.  If  we 
are  being  selfish,  aren't  you  being  selfish,  too?  " 

Stephen  made  no  reply.  In  his  present  mood  his 
instinctive  respect  for  Threlfall  as  a  social  superior 
was  almost  overcome  by  indignation  and  resentment. 
After  all,  this  man  was  the  thief,  the  real  culprit. 
He  had  made  no  sacrifices.  He  had  just  come  as 
a  perfect  stranger  and  with  no  kind  of  justification, 
was  preparing  to  wreck  the  lives  of  at  least  four 
people.  He  might  be  a  gentleman,  but  he  was  be- 
having like  a  cad,  now. 

As  he  considered  these  things,  Stephen's  anger  be- 
gan to  boil  again,  but  before  he  could  give  any 
expression  to  it,  old  Edwardes  asked  a  question,  and 
for  a  time,  Stephen  became  nothing  more  than  a 
spectator.  The  other  three  persons  in  the  room 
seemed  to  overlook  and  forget  him. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  then?"  Cecilia's 
father  asked.  I  don't  mean  in  the  future,  I  mean, 
now,  to-night." 

"  She's  going  up  to  town  by  the  half-past  two 
train,"  Threlfall  explained.  "  It  runs  as  usual  on 
Sunday  morning.  She  can  go  to  the  Great  Northern 
hotel  when  she  gets  in.  .  .   ." 

11  And  afterwards,  I  shall  go  on  to  Rhoda  Bel- 
lew's,"  Cecilia  added.  "  She'll  understand.  She 
asked  me  to  go  and  stay  with  her  when  she  was 
singing  down  here  last  winter." 

You're    giving    up    the    Cathedral    organ,    of 
course?"  Edwardes  asked,  turning  to  Threlfall. 

He  nodded  carelessly.  "  As  a  matter  of  fact  it's 
giving  me  up,"  he  said.     "  Or  rather  the  Dean  is. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       105 

I  saw  him  this  afternoon  and  he  gave  me  the  choice 
of  resigning  Cecilia  or  the  organ.  Naturally  I  gave 
up  the  organ.  I'm  going  on  for  another  fortnight 
—  to  save  appearances.  I  promised  that  I  wouldn't 
see  Cecilia  again  during  that  time.  And  as  she's 
going  to  London,  that  will  be  easy.  To-night  an 
exception." 

"  After  that  you'll  go  to  London,  too,  I  suppose," 
commented  Edwardes.  "  What  do  you  propose  to 
do?  No  more  organs  for  you  after  this,  you  know, 
my  boy,  and  I  can't  see  you  tuning  pianos." 

"  I'm  doing  the  score  for  a  burlesque,"  Threlfall 
said  with  rather  a  wry  face.  "  There  may  be  some 
money  in  that.  It  isn't  altogether  a  speculation. 
Arthur  Joyce  has  written  the  book.  I've  known 
him  for  years  and  he  has  often  pestered  me  to  write 
with  him.  I  know  it's  rather  a  come  down  from  one 
point  of  view,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I've  really  got 
rather  a  feeling  for  light  stuff  of  that  sort.  I  can 
already  hear  some  of  the  things  I've  done  on  the 
barrel-organs." 

Edwardes  shrugged  his  shoulders.^  "Lord,#I 
don't  blame  you,"  he  said.  "  One  kind  of  hack- 
work is  no  better  nor  worse  than  another." 

"  And  I  shall  try  to  get  engagements  for  telling 
stories,"  Cecilia  put  in,  gayly.  "  Rhoda  Bellew  said 
I  could,  easily,  if  I  wanted  to.  And,  father,  as  soon 
as  we're  settled  and  going  strong,  we  want ^ you  to 
give  up  your  drudgery  here  and  come  and  join  us. 
Don't  we,  Christopher?" 

Threlfall  nodded  emphatically. 

Stephen  listened  to  their  high-hearted  plans  for 
the  future,  with  his  mind  full  of  amazement.  Not 
one  of  them  had,  apparently,  any  thought  either  for 
the  tragic  drama  of  the  present  situation,  or  for  the 
misery  they  were  bringing  upon  himself,  his  sisters 


106       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

and  his  father.  Their  one  idea  was  to  escape  from 
Medboro'.  If  they  were  free  and  independent, 
their  innocent  victims  might  suffer  as  they  would. 
It  was,  perhaps,  comprehensible  that  his  grandfather 
and  Dr.  Threlfall  should  feel  like  that,  but  it  was 
still  incredible  to  Stephen  that  his  mother  could  in- 
stantly leave  all  her  family  —  cut  herself  off  and  be- 
gin an  entirely  new  life.  She  was  his;  his  very  own 
belonging;  and  he  was  surely  an  intimate,  essential 
part  of  her  existence.  He  was  too  astonished  to  be 
angry  any  more.  He  stared  at  her;  longing  for 
something  to  break;  some  detestable  spell  that  had 
been  put  upon  him  or  her,  and  had  horridly  changed 
all  the  values  of  his  existence. 

It  was  Threlfall  who  presently  realized  the  com- 
plete omission  of  Stephen  from  all  their  plans. 

"  It's  hard  luck  on  you,  Stephen,"  he  said,  turning 
to  him. 

^  "  What  about  the  others?  "  Stephen  asked.  He 
did  not  look  at  Threlfall  as  he  spoke.  He  had  over- 
come his  sulkiness,  and  he  stared  directly  at  his 
mother  prepared  to  entreat  her  for  the  first  time. 

She  bit  her  lip  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Father's  awfully  queer,"  he  went  on,  still  watch- 
ing her,  and  a  pleading  tone  came  into  his  voice  as 
he  continued.  "  He's  nearly  off  his  head,  I  think. 
After  supper,  he  was  walking  up  and  down  in  the 
bedroom  for  more  than  three  hours.  And — and 
he  spoke  funnily.  He  talked  to  me  as  if  I  was  some 
one  else.  I  believe  he'll  go  absolutely  mad.  I  do 
really." 

"  That's  only  a  kind  of  pose,"  Cecilia  replied 
coldly.  "  He  has  often  been  like  that  before.  You 
may  not  have  seen  it,  but  I  have." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  have,  not  like  he  was  to- 
night," pleaded  Stephen. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        i©7 

"  He  has  had  over  twenty  years  of  my  life,"  she 
said  sharply.     u  I  can't  afford  to  give  any  more." 

For  a  moment  Stephen  was  repelled,  angry  with 
her  again  for  her  heartlessness,  but  then  he  saw  her 
lip  quiver  and  his  mood  instantly  changed.  She  had 
never  resorted  to  tears  as  a  method  of  getting  her 
own  way.  She  was  above  that  weakness.  Only 
once  had  Stephen  ever  seen  her  cry,  and  that  was 
three  years  ago  when  her  father  had  been  danger- 
ously ill.  And  the  sight  of  her  weakness  touched 
him  as  nothing  else  could  have  done.  He  took  a 
step  towards  her,  and  there  were  tears  in  his  own 
voice  as  he  said: 

"  Oh!  mother,  don't  go.     Don't  leave  me." 

It  was  the  one  appeal  that  she  had  dreaded. 

There,  so  near,  now,  the  gates  of  Happiness  stood 
wide  open  for  her  to  pass  through.  Her  love  for 
Christopher  Threlfall  had  been  the  deciding  factor 
in  her  determination  to  enter  the  promised  land;  but 
the  temptation  included  far  more  than  that.  She 
saw  so  vividly  the  two  alternatives:  on  one  hand 
the  dull  duty  of  her  life  in  Medboro'  with  all  that  it 
implied;  on  the  other  the  lure  of  the  spiritual,  intel- 
lectual and  emotional  freedom  that  was  still  possible 
for  her.  All  the  load  was  on  one  scale.  Christo- 
pher, London,  the  impulse  to  self-expression;  against 
these  there  was  no  weight  at  all.  The  thought  of 
her  husband,  or  her  two  Kirkwood  daughters,  of  the 
life  of  Medboro'  only  served  to  make  the  other 
picture  shine  more  brilliantly  attractive.  The  single 
influence  of  remorse  and  desire  that  held  her  back 
was  Stephen.  And  she  would  not,  dared  not,  con- 
sider it.  She  had  but  to  take  one  more  step  to  pass 
into  the  land  of  Perfect  Delight  —  she  had  no  doubt 
of  its  perfection  —  it  would  be  sheer  folly  to  go 
back.     She  could  not  go  back. 


108        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

She  had  hidden  her  face  in  her  hands :  but  the  grief 
that  shook  her  was  due  not  to  doubt  but  to  the  pain 
of  making  this  single  sacrifice. 

"Mother!"  Stephen  besought  her  again.  He 
had  come  quite  close  to  her,  now.  He  was,  she 
knew,  ready  to  kneel  by  her,  to  put  his  arms  round 
her  and  destroy  the  whole  of  her  future  happiness. 
She  must  make  one  final  effort  whatever  it  cost  her. 

She  lifted  her  head  and  there  was  no  sign  of  tears 
on  her  face. 

"  Oh!  Stephen,  don't  be  so  silly,"  she  said. 

And  then,  she  laughed;  and  the  laugh  conquered 
her;  and  the  sound  of  it  was  evil.  She  knew  it  her- 
self, and  yet  was  unable  to  check  it.  She  had  re- 
leased the  demon  that  dwelt  in  her,  and  he  had  taken 
possession  of  her  body  and  was  using  it  to  express 
his  own  hideous  triumph. 

Threlfall  and  her  father  started  and  instinctively 
moved  towards  her  as  if  to  push  Stephen  away,  and 
hide  this  shame  from  him.  They  recognized  that 
laugh  as  the  sign  of  hysteria ;  and  were  ready  to  ex- 
cuse it.  She  had  been  too  hardly  tried.  She  was 
no  longer  responsible  for  her  emotions.  The  strain 
had  been  too  great  for  her  sensitive  temperament 
and  although  the  sound  of  that  laugh  was  horribly 
repellent  to  Christopher  Threlfall,  it  had  no  effect 
upon  his  love  for  Cecilia. 

But  to  Stephen,  his  mother's  laugh  was  a  complete 
and  desolating  catastrophe.  He  turned  away  from 
her  in  a  paroxysm  of  disgust  and  terror.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  she  had  been  suddenly  and  finally 
revealed  to  him  as  a  thing  of  evil. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        109 

11 

He  blundered  feebly  and  yet  with  a  violent  im- 
patience to  get  out  of  the  room.  The  blind  and  the 
fastening  of  the  window  resisted  him  with  a  tantal- 
izing inertia.  He  was  afraid  of  being  held  back  by 
his  grandfather  or  Dr.  Threlfall;  and  he  was  hysteri- 
cally eager  to  escape  from  the  sight  of  his  mother 
and  the  sound  of  her  jeering  laughter. 

When  he  had  at  last  forced  open  the  reluctant 
window,  he  ran  as  if  he  were  pursued.  .  .  . 

The  reflection  of  his  mother's  hysteria  disap- 
peared long  before  he  reached  home,  but  the  effect 
of  it  remained  with  him.  It  seemed,  indeed,  as  if 
the  experiences  of  those  two  days,  working  up  at 
last  to  this  hateful  climax,  had  completely  killed  his 
love  for  Cecilia.  He  saw  their  whole  past  life  to- 
gether from  a  new  point  of  view.  He  began  to  be- 
lieve that  she  had  always  deceived  him;  that  in  her 
tenderest  and  fondest  moments,  she  must,  in  her 
heart,  have  been  jeering  at  him.  He  could  not  rec- 
oncile the  picture  of  his  mother  as  he  had  known 
her,  with  that  of  the  woman  he  had  seen  in  the 
Lincoln  Road.  And  because  in  that,  his  last  sight 
of  her,  he  had  been  strung  up  to  a  pitch  of  abnormal 
sensitiveness  he  had  received  an  almost  indelible 
impression  of  having  at  last  realized  the  whole 
ghastly,  revolting  truth. 

She  had,  he  thought,  finally  revealed  her  true  self. 
And  even  when  in  the  course  of  years,  the  horror  of 
that  night  had  very  sensibly  faded,  the  deduction  still 
remained  and  was  confirmed  by  reason.  He  remem- 
bered all  that  was  callous  and  selfish  in  her  treatment 
of  himself  and  his  father  after  she  had  fallen  in  love 
with  Christopher  Threlfall.  He  came  to  believe 
that  she  had  never  cared  for  himself. 


no       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

There  was  still  one  more  ordeal  for  Stephen  to 
face  before  that  tragic  day  was  ended,  and  as  he 
rang  the  house-door  in  Long  Causeway,  an  immense 
feeling  of  desolation  and  exhaustion  all  but  over- 
powered him.  When  Emily  opened  the  door,  he 
stumbled  over  the  step  and  nearly  fell  into  the  hall. 

"  Stephen!  "  Emily  ejaculated.  "  Is  anything  the 
matter?" 

He  leant  against  the  wall  of  the  passage.  "  I'm 
about  done,*'  he  said,  and  as  he  made  the  admission, 
his  remaining  strength  seemed  to  ebb  out  of  him. 
His  knees  began  to  tremble.  He  would  have 
slipped  to  the  floor  if  Emily  had  not  caught  hold  of 
him. 

"  Stephen!  what's  happened?  "  she  besought  him 
in  an  awestricken  voice. 

"  It's  all  up,"  he  said.  He  knew  that  he  was  act- 
ing, but  he  found  relief  in  a  certain  insincerity  of 
manner.  It  was  so  much  easier  to  tell  Emily  like 
this;  and  he  had  to  tell  her.  He  was  being  theat- 
rical and  unreal.  He  could  still  have  pulled  himself 
together  if  he  had  made  an  effort.  But  though  he 
had  the  strength  to  conquer  his  physical  weakness, 
he  could  not  face  the  stress  of  an  intellectual  tussle 
with  his  sisters;  the  task  of  convincing  them  by 
tedious  explanations.  He  wanted  to  be  alone,  to  lie 
down  and  forget. 

"  D'you  mean  she's  —  gone?  "  Emily  asked  trag- 
ically. 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  said. 

"  With  —  him?" 

"  Yes." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  now.  I'll  tell  you  in  the  morn- 
ing," he  gasped.     "  Help  me  up  to  bed,  old  girl." 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        in 

He  was  genuinely  surprised  to  find  that  Hilda  had 
joined  them,  while  he  was  speaking. 

The  eternal  questioning  was  beginning  all  over 
again  and  he  wrenched  himself  away  from  Emily, 
tottered  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  began  with  an 
exaggerated  difficulty  to  climb  them.  His  sisters 
came  to  help  him,  then;  and  as  the  three  of  them 
struggled  together  up  the  narrow  staircase,  he  heard 
the  anxious  whispering  exchange  of  question  and 
answer  between  them.  He  did  not  care  what  they 
did,  if  only  they  would  not  cross-examine  him. 
There  were  some  things  that  he  could  never  tell 
them;  and  he  was  too  tired  just  now  to  conceal  the 
truth. 

He  allowed  them  to  help  him  right  up  to  his 
own  room  and  on  to  his  bed.  He  was  afraid  that  if 
he  gave  any  sign  of  recovered  strength  or  indepen- 
dence, they  would  immediately  take  advantage  of  it 
in  order  to  slake  the  fierce  thirst  of  their  curiosity. 

"  Shall  you  be  all  right?  "  Hilda  asked,  when  he 
was  at  last  deposited  on  the  bed. 

He  nodded.  He  was  afraid  even  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion as  to  his  father's  condition. 

Emily  saved  him  that  risk. 

"  Father's  asleep,"  she  said. 

He  nodded  again, 

"  We  made  him  go  to  bed,"  Hilda  added. 

He  shut  his  eyes  and  pretended  not  to  hear. 

When  they  had  gone,  he  began  to  undress.  He 
was  certainly  tired,  physically  and  mentally  weary, 
but  he  was  not  so  completely  done  that  he  found  any 
difficulty  in  standing  unsupported. 

As  he  thankfully  nestled  down  between  the  sheets, 
he  began  to  recall  the  doings  of  the  last  eighteen 
hours,  remembering  with  a  feeling  of  surprise  and 


ii2       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

pleasure  that  he  had  made    136  not  out   for  the 
School  against  the  Town. 

His  last  waking  thought  was  of  Margaret  Weath- 
erley.  His  mind  absolutely  refused  to  consider  any 
thought  of  his  mother. 


Ill 


CECILIA'S  bitter  description  of  her  husband's 
temporary  madness  as  "  a  kind  of  pose,"  was 
based  on  one  of  those  half-truths  that  account  for 
so  many  misunderstandings  between  husband  and 
wife.  She  had  seen  him  in  the  same  condition  on 
earlier  occasions,  and  the  natural  bias  of  her  tem- 
perament had  quickened  her  recognition  of  the  his- 
trionics involved.  That  phase  of  his  reaction  was 
a  thing  she  knew  and  could  appreciate.  She  could 
test  it  by  her  own  feelings  and  habit.  The  vital 
error  she  made  was  that  having  correctly  estimated 
a  mode  of  presentation,  she  mistook  it  for  a  cause; 
just  as  the  medical  profession  only  a  few  years  ago 
mistook  the  symptoms  of  hysteria.  For  behind  little 
Kirkwood's  acting  lay  a  real  and  dangerous  mental 
disturbance. 

The  habit  of  concealing  his  weakness  under  a  pre- 
tense of  absent-mindedness  had  been  growing  upon 
him  for  twenty  years.  From  the  first  moment  of  his 
astounding  engagement  to  the  beautiful  and  accom- 
plished Cecilia  Edwardes,  he  had  been  handicapped 
by  a  sense  of  his  own  unworthiness.  In  the  early 
days,  he  had  openly  expressed  this  realization  by  an 
exaggerated  humility.  His  abasement  had  been 
frank  and  complete.  And  in  the  beginning  his  ador- 
ation had  flattered  Cecilia's  girlish  vanity.  He  was 
ten  years  older  than  she,  and  she  found  a  new  delight 

113 


ii4       4N  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

in  this  absolute  exercise  of  her  authority.  With 
her  father  she  had  been,  at  best,  on  terms  of  equality, 
and  as  a  musician  she  had  always  been  his  pupil 
Now,  she  ruled. 

Those  relations,  however,  could  not  survive  the 
protracted  stresses  of  marriage.  To  Cecilia,  her 
husband's  prostration  soon  changed  from  a  delight 
to  a  bore.  There  were  no  possibilities  for  expe- 
rience and  diversion  in  the  exercise  of  so  absolute  an 
autocracy  as  she  was  called  upon  to  wield.  But 
even  if  she  had  not  shown  plainly  enough  that  hu- 
mility became  tedious  when  it  represented  the  single 
virtue  of  one's  husband,  little  Kirkwood  could  not 
have  maintained  that  attitude  indefinitely.  A  meas- 
ure of  self-esteem,  in  however  strange  a  form,  is 
essential  to  every  human  being;  and  something 
within  us  resists  and  cries  out  against  the  habit  of 
self-depreciation,  as  soon  as  it  becomes  marked 
enough  to  constitute  a  danger.  Little  Kirkwood 
had  to  find  a  disguise  that  would  cover  his  inefficiency 
from  his  wife,  and  incidentally  from  the  remainder 
of  his  limited  world.  He  found  it  in  an  ideal  of 
scholarship  combined  with  a  conventional  eccentric- 
ity of  manner. 

The  pose  was  never  in  the  fullest  sense  deliberate. 
He  did  not  invent  it,  he  could  hardly  be  said  to  have 
discovered  it.  It  represented  his  natural  escape  into 
fantasy,  and  presently  it  overpowered  him. 

It  is  true  that  in  ordinary  circumstances  the  harm- 
less insanity  that  developed  after  his  wife's  deser- 
tion, would  not  have  killed  him.  He  might  have 
lived  to  the  age  of  seventy  or  more,  regarded  as  a 
harmless  and  slightly  childish  eccentric,  if  his  depend- 
ence upon  Cecilia  had  been  the  normal  dependence 
of  a  husband  upon  an  admired  wife.  But  it  seems 
as  if  Cecilia  had  been  the  single  vitalizing  influence 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        115 

of  Andrew  Kirkwood's  existence,  as  if  he  must  have 
lived  through  her  personality.  It  is  certain  that 
from  the  time  she  left  him,  he  began  slowly  and  inevi- 
tably to  die  of  sheer  inanition. 

His  children  never  knew  whether  or  not  he  real- 
ized the  facts  as  they  were  known  to  themselves. 
The  girls  and  more  particularly  Emily,  displayed  a 
patience  in  dealing  with  him  that  was  nothing  short 
of  heroic;  for  he  was  a  constant  source  of  irritation 
to  them.  They  were  sane,  according  to  the  com- 
mon standard,  and  by  the  same  standard  he  was  not. 
And  they  never  had  the  consolation  of  knowing  for 
certain  that  he  was  insane  and  of  being  able  to  treat 
him  accordingly.  His  single  marked  delusion, —  the 
one  piece  of  evidence  that  his  children  could  cite  as 
a  ground  for  certainty, —  was  that  their  mother 
might  return  at  any  moment.  Sometimes  he  ap- 
peared to  realize  her  long  absence  and  expect  her 
return  as  an  event  already  too  long  delayed.  At 
others  his  manner  and  his  occasional  references  to 
her  implied  the  belief  that  she  had  never  gone 
away. 

And  to  Stephen's  mind  at  least,  Cecilia's  bitter 
comment  had  insinuated  a  doubt  that  he  was  never 
able  successfully  to  evade.  Even  when  his  father's 
delusion  grew  daily  more  and  more  marked, 
Stephen  was  still  pricked  by  the  uncertainty  as  to 
how  far  it  was  genuine ;  whether,  indeed,  it  was  not 
from  first  to  last,  an  almost  infantile  pretense,  a 
feeble  means  of  escape  from  responsibility  and 
shame. 


Cecilia  only  wrote  once  to  her  family  after  she 
left  them.  The  letter  was  addressed  to  Emily  and 
received  by  her  on  the  following  Monday.     She  in- 


n6       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

interpreted  it  as  a  gesture  of  defiance  and  contempt, 
but  it  had  not  been  so  intended.  Cecilia  had  written 
with  a  single  object  which  was  to  obtain  possession 
of  her  wardrobe,  and  she  had  not  adopted  the  tone 
most  likely  to  serve  her  desire.  She  had  made  no 
apology,  no  explanation.  She  had  simply  asked  that 
her  personal  belongings  might  be  packed  and  sent  to 
her  at  the  house  of  Rhoda  Bellew,  the  famous  con- 
tralto. The  letter  began  "  My  dear  Emily,"  was 
signed  "  your  affectionate  mother,"  and  made  no 
kind  of  reference  to  Cecilia's  manner  of  leaving 
Medboro'.  It  might  have  been  a  hasty  note,  dashed 
off  on  some  commonplace  occasion,  asking  a  small 
favor. 

As  she  had  written  it,  she  must  have  known  that 
her  daughters  would  be  offended,  outraged;  but  per- 
haps she  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  any  further 
contact  with  her  family,  just  then.  She  was  afraid 
to  consider  her  old  life  in  any  terms,  save  those  of 
her  own  past  sacrifices.  She  was  determined  to  be 
happy  at  any  cost;  and  she  had  to  keep  the  excuse 
for  her  determination  constantly  before  her;  know- 
ing that  if  she  once  began  to  examine  and  encourage 
her  own  conscience,  she  would  be  forever  tormented 
by  a  demon  of  regret.  She  had  dared  to  claim  hap- 
piness and  now,  she  meant  to  enjoy  it. 

Stephen  was  surprised  at  the  effect  of  that  letter 
upon  his  sisters.  It  had  been  received  by  the  second 
post,  and  he  knew  nothing  of  it  until  he  came  in  from 
school  at  five  o'clock.  In  the  interval  that  had 
elapsed  since  he  had  left  home  in  the  morning,  he 
had,  such  is  the  amazing  resilience  of  youth,  taken  a 
long  step  towards  recovery. 

One  of  his  problems  had  been  resolved  for  him 
by  his  achievement  in  the  town  match.  The  petty 
intrigue  against  him,  due  to  Hall  Minor's  jealousy, 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        117 

and  only  possible  because  it  had  involved  a  sugges- 
tion of  salacity,  had  been  utterly  defeated.  The 
two  Halls  and  their  allies  might,  in  other  circum- 
stances, have  succeeded  in  "  ragging  "  Stephen  quite 
unpleasantly;  but  if  you  attempt  to  rag  the  school 
hero,  you  only  bring  hostility  and  contempt  upon 
yourselves.  Moreover  the  rumor  concerning  the 
measles  had  been  a  true  one.  The  daughter  of  a 
neighboring  gentleman-farmer  had  now  developed 
them  beyond  question;  and  as  she  had  been  in  the 
company  of  Miss  Weatherley  only  two  days  before 
the  sickness  had  declared  itself,  all  the  headmaster's 
family  had  been  sent  away  at  once  in  order  to  safe- 
guard the  school.  Thus  against  the  temporary 
canonization  of  one  protagonist  and  in  the  absence  of 
the  other,  Hall  Minor's  shameful  plot  had  no  least 
chance  of  ripening.  Indeed,  by  way  of  definitely 
winding  up  the  episode,  he  made  a  private  apology 
to  Stephen,  an  apology  that  in  the  glory  of  the  mo- 
ment, Stephen  magnanimously  accepted. 

And,  so  far,  the  town  had  not  got  wind  of  the 
full  flavor  of  the  Kirkwood  Scandal.  Old  Ed- 
wardes  had  taken  his  daughter  to  the  station  in  the 
early  hours  of  Sunday;  and  even  if  any  one  had  seen 
them,  the  fact  that  she  had  gone  up  to  London  by  so 
unusual  a  train  was  rather  feeble  material  for  gossip 
in  face  of  Dr.  Threlfall's  visible  presence  in  the 
Cathedral,  the  same  morning. 

Stephen  certainly  suffered  one  qualm  of  sickness 
when  at  five  o'clock  he  entered  the  house  decorously 
by  the  side-door, —  he  had  an  instinctive  desire  to 
avoid  his  father, —  but  he  was  quite  prepared  to  take 
up  his  life  under  the  new  conditions  and,  as  his 
mother  had  done,  to  put  the  past  behind  him. 

Emily,  still  with  her  hat  on,  met  him  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs. 


n8        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"  Come  in  here,  Stephen,"  she  said,  indicating  the 
sitting-room  door.  "  Father  hasn't  come  up  yet." 
And  she  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  let  him  into  the 
sitting-room  with  an  air  of  mysterious  urgency. 

Stephen  submitted  with  a  sudden  thrill  of  fear. 
"  What  is  it?  "  he  asked  on  a  note  of  alarm,  as  soon 
as  the  door  had  been  shut  with  a  conspiratorial  se- 
crecy behind  them.  Hilda  was  standing  by  the  table 
with  a  look  of  anxious  expectancy  on  her  face. 

"  Look  at  that,"  exclaimed  Emily,  producing  the 
infamous  letter  from  her  pocket. 

Stephen  read  it  without  astonishment.  Those 
curt,  commonplace  phrases  seemed  to  him  the  ap- 
propriate expression  of  the  new  woman  he  had  so 
penetratingly  discovered  when  his  mother  had 
laughed  at  his  pleading.  This  was  the  letter  of  a 
hard,  selfish  woman,  he  thought;  of  the  woman  who 
had  been  so  unhappily  revealed  to  him. 

"  Well?  "  he  remarked.  "  What  of  it?  What 
else  did  you  expect?  " 

"  She  needn't  think  we'll  send  them,"  put  in 
Hilda  passionately. 

M  Great  Scott;  why  ever  not?  "  asked  Stephen. 

11  I  won't  touch  her  things,"  Emily  announced  with 
a  restrained  and  solemn  violence. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  them  then?" 
Stephen  asked,  looking  from  one  to  the  other.  He 
realized  that  he  was  witnessing  a  declaration  that 
was  nothing  short  of  religious  in  its  refusal  to  ap- 
proach contamination.  He  could  not  begin  to  un- 
derstand it. 

"  She'll  have  to  have  her  clothes,"  he  went  on,  as 
no  reply  to  his  question  was  forthcoming. 

Emily  had  found  a  focus  for  her  stare  and  gazed 
with  an  immense  fixity  at  a  stain  on  the  tablecloth  as 
she  said,  "  She's  a  bad  woman,  Stephen." 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        119 

"  Yes  I  know,  we've  had  all  that,"  he  replied  irri- 
tably, remembering  the  awful  inquisition  that  had 
been  held  the  previous  afternoon,  for  the  purpose  of 
extorting  from  him  a  full  and  precise  report  of 
everything  that  had  happened  at  the  house  in  the 
Lincoln  Road.  He  had  been  hard  put  to  it  more 
than  once  to  conceal  the  essential  detail  of  his 
mother's  great  refusal,  but  he  had  given  a  fairly 
inclusive  account  of  the  affair  up  to  the  moment  of 
Cecilia's  rejection  of  his  appeal.  "  But  supposing 
she  is,"  he  continued,  "  I'm  hanged  if  I  can  see  why 
you  shouldn't  send  her  her  things.  If  you  won't  I 
suppose  father  or  I  will  have  to  do  it.   .   .   ." 

You  couldn't  ask  father  to  do  it,"  Emily  inter- 
rupted him  in  a  shocked  voice.  She  spoke  as  if  her 
brother  had  suggested  some  fearful  outrage. 

Stephen  found  himself,  as  he  often  did  in  these 
disputes  with  his  sisters,  struggling  against  some 
insidious  feminine  force  that  he  had  no  power  to 
battle  against.  "  Then  do  you  mean  I've  got  to 
do  it?  "  he  asked. 

"  Why  should  she  have  them?"  posed  Hilda. 
"  She  hasn't  considered  us,  why  should  we  bother 
about  her?  " 

Stephen  could  not  understand  their  bitterness. 
He  was  nervously  hurt  by  his  mother's  desertion, 
but  he  had  no  desire  for  revenge. 

"  They're  hers,"  was  all  the  answer  he  could  find. 

Hilda  sniffed,  as  if  the  fact  of  the  things  belonging 
to  her  mother  was  sufficient  explanation  for  her  own 
refusal  to  touch  them. 

"  You  must  see  that  we  can't  have  anything  to  do 
with  them,"  Emily  said. 

"  Don't  see  it  at  all,"  Stephen  responded.  "  It 
seems  to  me  the  most  drivelling  rot.  Why  can't 
you?" 


120       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

The  two  girls  looked  at  one  another,  exchanging 
a  confidence  that  deplored  the  more  obvious  limita- 
tions of  masculine  intelligence.  They  were  both 
perfectly  convinced  at  the  moment  that  they  could 
not  touch  their  mother's  things;  but  they  were  quite 
unable  to  explain  why. 

11  Well,  I'm  not  going  to,  anyway,"  Hilda  de- 
clared. 

Emily  brooded  in  profound  acquiescence. 

Stephen  was  tempted  to  slam  out  of  the  room. 
These  insidious  virginal  resistances  stultified  and 
angered  him.  He  controlled  himself,  because  he 
dreaded  the  prospect  of  having  to  pack  his  mother's 
clothes.  He  saw  that  task  as  one  promising  innum- 
erable difficulties  and  embarrassments.  It  was  dif- 
ferent for  the  girls.  They  were  used  to  that  sort 
of  thing.  It  wasn't  a  man's  work.  He  searched 
his  mind  for  arguments. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said;  "  you  were  jolly  well  hor- 
rified when  I  said  father  might  have  to  do  it,  but  it 
must  be  a  lot  worse  for  him  to  have  her  things  all 
over  the  place  like  they  are  now.  Besides  if  you 
feel  like  you  say  you  do,  I  should  have  thought  you'd 
have  been  glad  to  have  them  out  of  the  house.  I 
don't  know  why  you  talk  about  it  as  if  her  things 
were  sort  of  poisonous,  but  you  do;  so  hadn't  you 
better  get  rid  of  'em  as  soon  as  you  can?  I'll  — 
I'll  help  you,  if  you  like." 

Hilda  laughed.  M  Oh !  thank  you,  that  would  be 
nice,"  she  said. 

"  Of  course,  you  couldn't  help  us,  Stephen,"  Em- 
ily gravely  explained. 

It  suddenly  appeared  as  if  the  thought  of  Stephen's 
undertaking  the  task  was  even  more  dreadful  than 
the  prospect  of  doing  it  themselves. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        121 

Stephen  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  hopeless  per- 
plexity. 

"  Well,  will  you  do  it?  "  he  asked. 

"  We  should  have  to  wait  until  father  was  out 
of  the  way,"  Emily  said,  as  though  no  other  obstacle 
had  ever  occurred  to  her. 

Stephen  began  to  think  that  his  brilliant  argument 
had  actually  won  the  success  it  deserved.  "  You 
see  my  point  about  not  leaving  the  things  about?  " 
he  said  hopefully. 

11  Oh !  it  isn't  that,"  Hilda  replied  contemptuously, 
and  Emily  concurred  with  a  gloomy  sedateness. 

Their  father  came  up  to  tea  before  anything  fur- 
ther could  be  added,  and  the  subject  was  not  re- 
opened until  the  next  evening,  when  Stephen  remem- 
bered it  with  a  shock  of  dismay,  in  the  middle  of 
his  "  preparation."  He  felt  curiously  responsible 
about  this  affair.  It  seemed  to  him  a  matter  of  im- 
mense importance  to  get  rid  of  those  intimate  wit- 
nesses of  his  mother's  personality. 

He  went  downstairs  at  once  and  found  his  sisters 
alone  together  in  the  kitchen. 

"  I  say,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  those 
things?"  he  whispered. 

"  They've  gone,"  Emily  said,  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  pronounced  judgment. 

Stephen  hesitated  a  moment,  debating  whether  it 
were  worth  while  to  ask  for  an  explanation  of  their 
inscrutable  attitude  towards  the  whole  affair.  He 
decided  that  it  was  not. 

"  Oh!  good,"  he  said,  and  returned  to  his  inter- 
rupted work. 

He  was  aware  of  a  feeling  of  great  relief.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  some  unpleasant,  disturbing 
temptation  had  been  suddenly  removed. 


122        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 


The  manner  of  Cecilia's  flight  entirely  spoilt  the 
dramatic  values  of  the  scandal.  The  deduction  that 
she  had  run  away  with  the  Cathedral  organist  could 
only  be  arrived  at  by  tedious  degrees.  Even  Aunt 
Eleanor  was  partly  deceived,  and  being  willing  on 
this  occasion  to  minimize  the  gossip,  did  her  best  to 
maintain  the  theory  that  her  sister-in-law  was  spend- 
ing her  summer  holiday  in  London  with  the  famous 
contralto  Rhoda  Bellew. 

That  theory  was  a  sudden  inspiration  of  Hilda's 
delivered  with  a  bright  effect  of  the  commonplace 
when  Mrs.  Bell  came  up  alone  on  the  Wednesday 
afternoon  after  the  disaster,  to  make  enquiries  on 
her  own  account. 

Emily  let  her  aunt  in,  and  Mrs.  Bell  came  up  to 
the  sitting-room  with  an  air  of  making  the  most 
friendly  of  calls.  Not  until  she  had  been  talking  to 
her  two  nieces  for  quite  five  minutes,  did  she  ask 
with  a  marked  change  of  manner  where  their  mother 
was. 

"  Oh!  didn't  you  know?  "  replied  Hilda,  surpris- 
ingly equal  to  the  occasion.  "  She's  staying  in  Lon- 
don with  Miss  Bellew." 

11  But  your  father's  still  at  home,"  Mrs.  Bell  re- 
turned suspiciously. 

"  Yes;  he's  not  going.  He  hates  London,"  Hilda 
said. 

"  When  did  she  go?  "  enquired  her  aunt. 

"  Saturday  evening,"  Hilda  replied. 

"  And  how  long  is  she  going  to  be  away?  " 

"  We  don't  know,"  Hilda  said,  with  a  little  ges- 
ture of  despair.     "  A  month  or  two,  anyway." 

Mrs.  Bell  looked  as  if  she  thought  the  whole  af- 
fair was  very  "unfortunate," — her  favorite  word 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       123 

—  and  then  asked  with  an  effect  of  making  a  great 
confidence  if  they  had  heard  that  Dr.  Threlfall  was 
leaving. 

"  No  !  Is  he  ?  I  saw  him  in  the  town,  this  morn- 
ing," replied  Hilda. 

"I  heard  that  he  was,"  Mrs.  Bell  said;  "but 
there  mayn't  be  anything  in  it,  of  course.  I'm 
sure  I  hope  he  isn't.  It  would  be  so  unfortunate 
if  there  was  any  kind  of  scandal  just  now.  You 
know  people  will  say  things,  and  your  mother  is  so 
imprudent." 

She  pressed  her  enquiry  no  further  on  that  occa- 
sion, and  although  she  took  the  most  despondent 
view  of  the  situation  when  she  reported  the  visit  to 
her  husband,  she  turned  a  cheerful  face  to  the  town's 
questions. 

Another  circumstance  that  favored  Hilda's 
bright  idea  was  the  fact  that  Dr.  Threlfall  did  not 
actually  leave  Medboro'  for  nearly  six  weeks  after 
Cecilia  had  gone.  There  had  been  a  difficulty  in 
replacing  him,  and  he  had  consented  to  stay  on  until 
his  successor  could  be  appointed.  Walker,  the  as- 
sistant, was  too  young  to  be  left  in  sole  charge.  But 
although  the  town  knew  that  their  organist  was  often 
away  for  two  or  three  nights  in  the  middle  of  the 
week,  and  did  not  fail  to  put  the  worst  possible  in- 
terpretation on  the  discovery  that  he  spent  that  time 
in  London,  the  affair,  generally,  lacked  that  point 
and  definition  necessary  to  a  really  satisfactory  scan- 
dal. The  thing  was  stale,  talked  out  and  all  the 
piquancy  of  it  exhausted,  before  the  suspicion  of 
Cecilia's  infamy  was  finally  confirmed  more  than  five 
months  after  she  had  run  away.  She  was  seen  in 
town  just  after  Christmas  at  a  theater,  in  company 
with  Threlfall,  by  Adam  Neale,  Folliett's  managing 
clerk,  and  the  fact  gradually  became  known  without 


i24       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

causing  any  important  revival  of  interest.  In  these 
five  months,  Cecilia  had  ceased  to  intrigue  the  atten- 
tion of  Medboro',  and  now,  the  gossips  found  that 
they  had  always  expected  her  to  do  something  of 
the  sort.  If  this  confirmation  of  their  most  hopeful 
prophecies  had  any  effect  at  all,  it  was  in  the  direc- 
tion of  stimulating  their  expressions  of  sympathy  for 
Cecilia's  husband.  He  had  so  splendidly  justified 
the  principles  of  the  moralists  by  "  going  off  his 
head."  He  was  still  carrying  on  his  business,  but 
every  one  had  noticed  how  "  queer  "  he  was  getting. 

Also  there  were  many  other  affairs  to  distract  the 
attention  about  the  time  of  Cecilia's  elopement. 
Old  Mr.  Lynneker,  the  Rector  of  Halton  —  an  im- 
portant village  some  four  miles  out  of  the  town  — 
died  in  August;  and  very  soon  afterwards  the  en- 
gagement of  his  youngest  son  to  the  niece  of  the 
Bishop's  wife  had  been  announced  —  quite  a  sur- 
prising affair  for  those  who  remembered  young  Mr. 
Lynneker  as  a  clerk  in  the  City  and  County  Bank. 
His  fiancee,  Miss  Sybil  Groome,  was  a  young  lady 
of  good  family.  Lady  Constance  Olivier  was  a 
sister  of  Lord  Wansford's. 

Then,  too,  there  was  a  great  deal  of  talk  about 
the  sudden  access  to  fortune  of  Dr.  Weatherley,  the 
head-master  of  the  King's  School,  whose  uncle  had 
died  and  left  him,  quite  unexpectedly  so  it  was  said, 
a  sum  of  money  variously  estimated  at  from  fifty 
thousand  pounds  to  half  a  million.  Dr.  Weatherley 
stayed  on  at  the  School  until  the  end  of  the  Christ- 
mas term,  but  his  wife  and  family  did  not  return  to 
Medboro'  after  the  summer  holidays. 

It  was  in  this  August,  too,  that  Mrs.  Dickinson, 
the  wife  of  the  builder,  made  the  famous  scene  in 
the  market-place.     Every  one  knew  that  she  drank, 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        125 

but  she  had  until  this  occasion  concealed  her  weakness 
in  the  privacy  of  her  own  home.  In  public,  she  al- 
ways wore  a  thick  veil  to  conceal  the  disastrous  ef- 
fects that  over  indulgence  was  having  upon  her  com- 
plexion. But  on  that  Wednesday  afternoon  —  it 
was  cattle-market  day,  and  even  at  half-past  three 
the  Square  was  full  of  people  —  she  appeared  not 
only  without  a  veil  but,  also,  without  a  hat.  Mr. 
Hewitt,  the  grocer,  was  the  first  person  to  recognize 
her,  and  he  ran  out  of  his  shop  and  tried  to  persuade 
her  to  u  come  in  and  rest  for  a  bit  out  of  the  heat  "; 
whereupon  to  his  immense  distress,  she  turned  upon 
him,  accused  him  of  being  in  league  with  her  hus- 
band, and  began  to  scream  for  help.  There  was  a 
crowd  round  them  at  once,  a  crowd  that  contained  a 
large  number  of  cattle-drovers,  some  of  them  mar- 
ket-merry and  all  of  them  quite  ready  for  a  little  in- 
nocent amusement.  Mr.  Hewitt  was  heroic,  and 
stood  his  ground,  still  attempting  to  persuade  the 
shrieking  Mrs.  Dickinson  into  the  asylum  of  his 
shop,  in  face  of  the  ribald  comments  of  the  drovers 
who  strongly  supported  the  presumed  grievances  of 
the  lady.  Even  if  it  had  ended  there,  the  scandal 
would  have  been  a  remarkable  one,  but  worse  was  to 
follow.  For  when  assistance  arrived, —  Mr.  Bell 
from  the  Bank  and  Atcherley  the  saddler  from  the 
top  of  Narrow  Street  were  Mr.  Hewitt's  first  allies 
—  Mrs.  Dickinson  threw  herself  on  the  ground,  de- 
nounced them  all  for  plotting  to  get  her  "  put  away," 
and  dared  them  to  do  their  worst.  They  had  to 
take  her  to  the  police-station  in  the  end.  A  dreadful 
business  altogether. 

Certainly  Medboro'  had  enough  distractions  that 
August  to  turn  its  attention  from  the  reputed  wick- 
edness of  Mrs.  Kirkwood  and  the  Cathedral  or- 
ganist. 


126       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 


Stephen  did  not  return  to  the  King's  School  after 
the  summer  holidays.  He  would  have  shrunk  from 
the  idea  of  going  back  in  any  case.  He  knew  that 
the  truth  about  his  mother  must  be  known  sooner  or 
later;  and  foresaw  that  in  those  circumstances  fel- 
lows like  the  Halls  could  not  be  expected  to  show 
any  delicacy  of  feeling.  They  would  make  unpleas- 
ant allusions,  and  then  pretend  to  apologize.  But 
that  difficulty  was  solved  for  him  by  the  prompt  ac- 
tion of  Mr.  Dickinson. 

He  called  at  the  shop  one  morning,  about  a  week 
after  his  wife's  disgraceful  exhibition  in  the  market- 
place, and  made  enquiry  from  Mr.  Kirkwood  for 
"  that  lad  of  yours." 

Little  Kirkwood,  who  then  and  for  more  than 
twelve  months  afterwards  was  perfectly  sane  and 
practical  as  long  as  the  subject  before  him  did  not 
involve  his  great  delusion,  replied  that  Stephen  was 
upstairs. 

"  I  want  him  to  come  into  my  office,"  Mr.  Dick- 
inson bluntly  announced. 

"  He  has  mentioned  it  to  me,"  little  Kirkwood 
said  rubbing  his  hands  and  brooding  wistfully. 

"  Does  he  want  to  come?  "  Dickinson  asked. 

"  I  believe  he  does,"  the  bookseller  replied. 

"  Have  you  any  objection?  " 

Mr.  Kirkwood  continued  to  rub  his  hands  with  an 
air  of  deep  contemplation. 

He  was  flattered  by  the  builder's  attention.  De- 
spite the  unfortunate  marriage  which  had  interfered 
with  his  social  relations,  James  Dickinson  was  well 
respected  in  the  town.  He,  like  old  Spentwater  the 
timber-merchant,  represented  an  industry  that  added 
to  the  collective  wealth  of  the  place.     They  made 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        127 

money  outside  Medboro'  and  brought  it  in  to  the 
town  —  mainly  through  the  employment  of  local 
labor.  For,  although  Medboro'  was  the  site  of 
Dickinson's  workshops  and  offices,  he  was  only  inci- 
dentally a  local  contractor.  All  his  big  jobs  had 
been  outside.  He  had  done  important  work  in  Lon- 
don, Leicester,  and  Bedford,  for  example,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  new  school  buildings  at  Oakstone  upon 
which  over  £80,000  had  been  spent  in  the  past  ten 
years. 

"  I  had  wanted  Stephen  to  go  in  for  literature," 
little  Kirkwood  said  apologetically,  "  but  Mr.  Ser- 
combe  seems  to  think  he  has  no  particular  talent  that 
way.  I'm  not  sure  whether  his  mother.  .  .  ."  He 
paused  with  a  sudden  air  of  changing  the  subject,  and 
then  went  on,  "  She's  away,  just  now,  staying  with 
her  friend  Miss  Bellew,  the  singer,  in  London." 

Dickinson's  eyes  narrowed.  He  knew  more  than 
the  town  did  about  that  affair,  and  he  had  a  fellow 
feeling  for  the  bookseller;  but  he  also -had  a  shrewd 
suspicion  that  this  was  not  an  appropriate  occasion 
for  any  expression  of  sympathy. 

"  Well,  if  you've  no  objection  I'll  go  up  and  see 
the  lad,  myself,"  he  broke  in,  ignoring  the  diversion. 

"  Very  pleased,  I'm  sure,"  Mr.  Kirkwood  mum- 
bled, and  led  the  way  upstairs. 

They  found  Stephen  in  the  sitting-room,  reading  a 
second-hand  copy  of  Gwilt's  Encyclopaedia  of  Archi- 
tecture, borrowed  from  the  shop.  He  jumped  up 
when  his  father  and  Dickinson  came  in. 

11  Here's  Mr.  Dickinson  come  to  see  you, 
Stephen,"  little  Kirkwood  announced,  "  about  your 
going  in  to  his  office." 

Stephen  blushed  and  could  find  no  suitable  answer. 
He  was  a  trifle  overwhelmed  at  the  honor  that  was 
being  done  to  him. 


128        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

11  I  happened  to  be  passing,"  Dickinson  said,  "  and 
thought  I'd  just  look  in  and  see  if  you  and  your 
father  had  made  up  your  minds  yet." 

11  I  should  like  to  come,  sir,"  Stephen  said.  "  And 
I  don't  think  father  has  any  objection,  now." 

"  Been  reading Gwilt,  eh?  "  Dickinson  commented, 
with  a  glance  at  the  squat,  thick  volume  on  the 
table.  "Ah!  well,  he's  a  bit  out  of  date.  What 
you've  got  to  learn  about  now,  in  the  building  trade 
is  the  use  of  steel.     Are  you  good  at  figures?  " 

"  Pretty  fair,  I  think,  sir,"  Stephen  said.  "  At 
school,  I  was  always  better  at  maths,  than  classics." 

"  Rotten  school  ours,"  remarked  the  builder  with 
emphasis.  "  Oakstone's  the  place  to  educate  boys 
for  the  Engineering  Trades.  I've  got  tips  for  my 
own  business  from  the  shops  I  built  at  Oakstone." 

He  was  not,  physically  a  very  big  man,  but  he 
seemed  to  fill  the  Kirkwoods'  little  sitting-room,  as 
he  stood  there  by  the  table  talking  of  building  and 
education.  He  had  such  an  air  of  resolution  and 
forthrightness,  of  knowing  how  things  ought  to  be 
done,  and  getting  them  done  without  delay. 

A  thought  of  Dr.  Threlfall  flitted  across 
Stephen's  mind,  and  by  comparison  the  organist 
seemed  a  delicate  and  rather  finicking  creature. 

"Well,  when  will  you  begin?"  Dickinson  con- 
tinued. u  I  should  put  you  in  the  office  to  start  with 
—  at  sixteen  shillings  a  week.  But  if  you  show  any 
aptitude  you'll  soon  get  a  rise."  He  hesitated, 
frowned  and  made  a  half-apologetic  gesture  with  one 
of  his  square,  capable  hands.  "  To  be  quite  frank 
with  you,"  he  went  on,  "  I've  got  a  notion  of  taking 
some  youngster  like  yourself  and  bringing  him  up  to 
the  business.  My  own  son  as  you  know  was  .  .  . 
My  own  boy  died  two  years  ago  last  January;  and 
I'm  not  likely  to  have  another.     I  shall  be  fifty-one 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       129 

next  month,  and  as  perhaps  you've  heard  my  wife's 
gone  to  an  asylum  and  likely  to  stay  there." 

He  gave  them  no  time  to  mumble  their  condol- 
ences, but  went  on  almost  without  a  break,  "  So  you 
see,  my  lad,  I'm  giving  you  a  rare  chance.  It'll  de- 
pend on  yourself  what  use  you  make  of  it.  If  you 
show  aptitude  and  work  hard,  you'll  likely  be  a  rich 
man  one  of  these  days." 

He  looked  straight  at  Stephen  as  he  concluded  this 
speech,  and  Stephen  blushed  and  stammered.  "  I'd 
like  to  try,  sir,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  you  be  up  at  my  office  at  nine  sharp  on 
Monday  morning,  and  we'll  soon  see  what  you're 
made  of,"  Mr.  Dickinson  answered,  with  a  touch  of 
asperity.     "  Good-day  to  you." 

He  was  downstairs  and  out  into  the  street  before 
little  Kirkwood,  hurrying  after  him,  could  get  in  a 
single  word  of  thanks. 

Stephen  was  greatly  flattered,  but  afraid  that  he 
had  hardly  done  himself  justice.  He  had  been  em- 
barrassed by  such  an  extraordinary  mark  of  favor 
from  so  great  a  man.  He  could  think  of  no  reason 
why  he  had  been  thus  singled  out.  It  was  so  odd, 
too,  that  Mr.  Dickinson  should  have  taken  the 
trouble  to  come  and  see  him,  and  have  been  so  out- 
spoken about  his  private  affairs  and  intentions. 

Emily  and  Hilda,  also,  dwelt  rather  unnecessarily 
on  this  aspect  of  the  offer,  when  the  great  announce- 
ment was  made  to  them.  Hilda  even  went  so  far 
as  to  wonder  whether  Mr.  Dickinson's  domestic 
troubles  had  been  too  much  for  him  —  she  was,  nat- 
urally, somewhat  biassed  about  this  time  by  their 
own  experiences.  But  indeed  none  of  them  was  the 
least  likely  to  guess  the  truth,  since  they  were  all 
ignorant  both  of  a  certain  fact  in  James  Dickinson's 
life,  and  also  of  a  certain  trait  in  his  character. 


i3o       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

The  fact  in  question  was  that  his  son,  a  boy  of 
thirteen  had,  in  effect,  been  killed  by  his  mother's 
neglect.  He  had  scarlet  fever,  was  slightly  delir- 
ious, and  she  was  supposed  to  be  nursing  him.  She 
had  been  steadily  sober,  then,  for  nearly  two  months; 
and  her  husband  had  trusted  her.  She  was  not  less 
devoted  to  the  boy  than  he  was  himself  and  it 
seemed  to  the  last  degree  improbable  that  she  would 
break  out  again  just  at  this  crisis.  Yet  that  was 
what  she  did;  and  she  was  sound  asleep  and  helpless 
in  her  chair  when  young  Dickinson  got  out  of  bed 
in  the  middle  of  the  January  night  and  leaned  out  of 
the  window  to  cool  himself.  His  father  found  him 
there,  and  only  his  two  parents  knew  the  real  cause 
of  the  boy's  death.  That  Mrs.  Dickinson  was 
hardly  ever  sober  after  this  tragedy  is  not,  perhaps,  a 
cause  for  astonishment. 

The  trait  in  James  Dickinson's  character  was  sim- 
ply a  longing  for  some  expression  of  his  defeated 
fatherhood.  He  chose  to  experiment  with  Stephen, 
firstly  because  he  liked  the  look  of  him,  and  secondly 
because,  as  in  the  case  of  his  own  son,  Stephen  had, 
in  Dickinson's  opinion,  been  unfortunate  in  his 
mother. 

5 

So  it  came  about  that  in  the  course  of  the  next 
seven  years,  Stephen  was  given  opportunity  to  study 
the  mysteries  of  the  building  trade  in  all  its  branches. 
He  began  in  what  was  known  as  the  Works'  Office; 
two  miles  out  of  the  town ;  the  works  being  conven- 
iently situated  to  straddle  a  siding  of  the  Great 
Northern  Railway,  and  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
of  "  the  New  Stretton  Brickfields  "  of  which  Com- 
pany James  Dickinson  was  a  director  and  the  prin- 
cipal shareholder. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        131 

Here  Stephen  began  his  business  career  as  a  junior 
estimating  clerk,  the  reason  given  him  for  this 
method  of  inauguration  being,  in  the  words  of  his 
employer,  that  "  Building  begins  with  prices  and 
ends  with  'em.  You  start  a  job  with  the  estimate  for 
your  tender  and  finish  it  with  the  bill  of  extras  and 
omissions.  So  you  can't  do  better  than  get  a  ground- 
ing in  prices  on  paper,  to  start  with.  And  don't  for- 
get that  it's  only  a  grounding.  You'll  have  to  go  on 
keeping  in  touch  with  prices  for  the  rest  of  your 
natural  life.  I'm  learning  something  new  in  that 
way,  every  day." 

Nevertheless,  Stephen  never  became  an  expert  in 
this  essential  branch  of  knowledge.  He  had  a  re- 
liable memory,  and  a  good  head  for  figures,  but  the 
subject  of  prices  never  really  interested  him;  whereas 
the  problems  of  construction  fascinated  him  from  the 
outset.  Also  he  became  in  time  a  competent  judge 
of  materials.  His  real  appreciation  of  the  trade  he 
had  adopted  began  when  after  two  years  of  con- 
scientious struggling  with  the  strange  intricacies  of 
estimating,  Mr.  Dickinson  decided  to  give  him  fur- 
ther practical  experience  by  "  putting  him  through 
the  shops." 

Stephen  was  looking  a  trifle  peeked  just  then. 
Two  years  of  indoor,  clerical  work  had  begun  to  tell 
on  him.  Also  his  father  had  died  some  three  weeks 
before,  and  he  had  been  involved  in  a  host  of  minor 
worries  and  perplexities.  His  three  years  in  the 
shops  made  a  new  man  of  him,  broadened  his  shoul- 
ders, cured  a  slight  tendency  to  anaemia  that  had 
shown  itself  as  a  result  of  his  indoor  life,  and  gen- 
erally quickened  his  vitality. 

Incidentally,  the  move  from  office  to  shops  marked 
a  change  in  Stephen's  relations  to  his  employer.  Up 
to  that  time  he  had  received  no  special  mark  of 


132       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

favor.  He  had  had  his  wages  raised  from  sixteen 
to  twenty-two  shillings  a  week,  but  judging  by  the 
standard  of  his  colleague's  earnings,  the  latter  figure, 
was  not  excessive  for  the  work  he  was  doing.  More- 
over both  inside  the  office  and  out,  Mr.  Dickinson 
treated  Stephen  precisely  as  he  treated  his  other  em- 
ployees of  the  same  grade;  and  he  had  made  no 
further  reference  to  the  large  promises  he  had  orig- 
inally indicated.  Indeed,  when  Stephen  received  a 
message  from  one  of  the  senior  clerks  that  he  was 
wanted  by  the  boss  up  at  the  town  office,  he  had  a 
horrible  suspicion  that  he  might  be  going  to  get  the 
sack! 

The  opening  of  the  conversation  between  him  and 
his  master  did  not  immediately  relieve  this  anxiety. 

Mr.  Dickinson  began  by  asking  Stephen  if  he  were 
satisfied  with  the  manner  in  which  he  was  doing  his 
work. 

"  I  do  my  best,  sir,"  Stephen  said.  u  I  can't  say 
that  I  find  the  work  very  interesting." 

"  Think  you'd  like  to  give  it  up?  "  Mr.  Dickinson 
enquired,  looking  down  at  the  papers  on  the  desk  in 
front  of  him. 

"  Oh !  no,  sir,"  Stephen  ejaculated. 

11  I  meant  the  office-work,  for  the  time  being.  Go 
into  the  shops,"  his  employer  explained. 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  should  like  that."  Stephen  agreed 
readily. 

"  Well,  I'm  putting  you  on  to  that,  next  week," 
Mr.  Dickinson  said.  He  pushed  the  papers  away 
from  him,  and  looked  up  as  he  continued.  "  You'll 
not  be  earning  your  wages,  there,  you  know.  You 
wouldn't  be  worth  fivepence  an  hour  in  the  carpen- 
ters' yard."  He  was  watching  Stephen's  expression 
with  a  keen,  steady  stare;  and  waited  now  for  him  to 
comment  on  this  last  indisputable  statement. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        133 

"  Then  I  think  I'd  better  stick  to  the  estimating, 
sir/'  Stephen  said.  "  My  father  didn't  leave  much, 
and  my  sister,  the  youngest  one  that  is,  is  only  get- 
ting twelve  shillings  a  week.  It's  a  bit  tight,  all 
round." 

His  employer  made  no  comment  on  this  announce- 
ment. "  I've  been  keeping  an  eye  on  you,  my  lad," 
he  went  on,  "  although  you  mayn't  have  been  aware 
of  it,  and  I  think  you'll  shape,  when  you've  had  a 
bit  more  experience.  Well,  I  made  you  some  kind  of 
a  promise  two  years  back,  but  I've  just  been  waiting 
to  see  what  you're  made  of.  Now  what  it  comes 
to  is  this  that  I'm  going  to  apprentice  you  to  the 
trade,  and  take  the  risk  of  whether  you'll  be  any 
good  to  me  in  say,  five  years  time.  In  the  mean- 
while, I  shall  allow  you  three  pounds  a  week;  and 
you  must  understand  that  you'll  get  no  advance  on 
that  until  your  live  years  is  up, —  unless  you  can 
prove  to  me  that  you're  worth  more." 

Stephen  began  to  stammer  his  thanks,  but  Mr. 
Dickinson  interrupted  him. 

"  How  d'you  get  on  with  the  other  chaps  in  the 
office?  "  he  asked. 

"  Fairly  well,  sir,"  Stephen  replied. 

II  Find  'em  a  bit  rough  sometimes?  " 
"  A  bit,  sir." 

"  You'll  find  'em  rougher  in  the  shops." 

II I  can  put  up  with  that,  sir." 

11  Aye,  no  doubt  you  can,"  returned  Mr.  Dickin- 
son; "  but  there's  maybe  more  in  it  than  you  think 
all  the  same.  With  these  other  chaps  in  the  office, 
you've  been  working  on  a  level;  and  I've  taken  good 
care  as  they  shouldn't  have  any  reason  to  be  jealous 
of  you.  Now  you've  got  a  big  lift,  my  lad,  and 
they'll  all  know  about  it;  and  you  mustn't  expect  to 
find  yourself  exactly  popular.     You'll  not  be  joining 


i34       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

any  of  the  unions  for  instance.  You'll  be  the  young 
gent  come  to  learn  the  trade,  and  they'll  be  suspicious 
of  you;  accuse  you  of  spyin'  on  'em  as  likely  as  not, 
and  a  lot  of  other  damn  foolishness."  His  regard 
of  Stephen  had  a  hint  of  tenderness  as  he  added, 
"  Can  you  stick  it,  my  lad?  " 

"  What  else  can  I  do,  sir?  "  Stephen  replied. 

"  Ah!  but  do  you  want  to  stick  it?  "  Mr.  Dickin- 
son asked.  "  Are  you  keen  enough  on  the  job  to 
put  up  with  a  lot  of  unpleasantness  so  as  you  may 
learn  it?  I  don't  mean  because  you  want  to  get  on, 
and  make  money,  but  because  you're  interested  in 
building." 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  am  very  interested  in  building  —  on 
the  constructional  side,"  Stephen  said. 

Mr.  Dickinson  smiled.  You  don't  mean  me  to 
forget  that,"  he  said.  "  Well,  so  long  as  I'm  here 
to  look  after  the  other  side,  it'll  suit  me  well  enough 
to  train  you  in  construction.  But  just  bear  in  mind 
what  I  told  you  here  two  years  ago,  that  it's  prices 
as  is  the  backbone  of  the  trade." 

As  Stephen  was  going,  Mr.  Dickinson  got  up  and 
laid  a  friendly  hand  on  his  shoulder  You'll  do 
me  credit,  yet,"  he  said  with  a  kind  smile. 

Stephen  had  not  known  such  a  feeling  of  elation 
since  his  great  score  in  the  Town  match;  and  this 
time  there  was  no  horrible  interference  with  his 
triumph.  His  sisters  each  in  her  own  manner 
glowed  over  him  when  he  told  them  his  great  news; 
Hilda  making  romantic  plans  for  his  future;  and 
Emily  regarding  him  with  an  intent  stare  of  brooding 
admiration.  Their  only  regret  was  that  "  poor 
father  couldn't  know." 

Little  Kirkwood,  the  martyr,  had  already  been 
canonized  by  his  children. 

Nevertheless  some  effect  of  association  brought 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        135 

memories  of  his  mother  rather  than  of  his  father,  to 
Stephen  that  night.  Intellectually  his  judgment  of 
her  had  not  changed  in  those  two  years.  He  still 
believed  that  she  had  deceived  and  hoaxed  them  all; 
that  she  had  never  loved  them  and  had  lived  always 
and  only  for  her  own  pleasure  and  satisfaction.  But 
he  was  beginning  to  frame  the  ghost  of  an  excuse 
for  her ;  and  in  doing  it  he  found  himself  wondering 
with  a  little  pang  of  longing  whether  she  ever 
thought  of  him.  He  knew  that  Dr.  Threlfall  had 
been  successful  with  his  light  music  and,  also,  that 
his  mother  had  made  more  than  one  appearance  on 
the  London  stage  as  a  raconteuse.  Stephen  sup- 
posed that  they  would  get  married,  now,  that  his 
father  was  dead  —  if  they  ever  heard  of  his 
death.  .  .  . 

And  just  as  he  was  going  to  sleep  he  had  a  sudden 
vision  of  little  Margaret  Weatherley.  Her  face  ap- 
peared quite  clearly  before  him,  wearing  the  same 
bewildering  smile  with  which  she  had  beckoned  him 
the  last  time  he  had  seen  her. 

It  seemed  as  if  there  was  some  subtle,  unanalyzable 
relation  in  Stephen's  mind  between  his  mother  and 
Margaret  Weatherley.  He  was  inclined  to  think 
of  them  as  representing  his  evil  and  his  good  angels. 
He  had  dreamed  of  them,  perhaps,  half  a  dozen 
times  in  the  past  two  years;  and  once  Margaret  had 
come  to  him  with  welcoming  arms  and  as  he  had 
rapturously  gone  to  meet  her  he  had  realized  with 
a  faint  disappointment  that  he  was  embracing  his 
mother. 

6 

Mr.  Dickinson's  forecast  of  the  general  attitude 
that  Stephen  might  expect  from  the  workmen  in  the 
shops,  proved  to  be  fairly  accurate.     The  favored 


136       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

apprentice,  neither  gentleman  nor  workman,  was 
looked  upon  with  suspicion  and  dislike.  He  repre- 
sented the  potential  employer,  while  in  each  depart- 
ment of  the  crafts  through  which  he  traveled  he  be- 
gan as  the  inferior  in  knowledge  of  the  least  skilled 
workman.  Also,  he  had  an  unfair  advantage  over 
them.  He  came  to  learn,  but  not  to  acquire  that 
skill  in  the  craft  which  can  only  be  gained  by  long 
years  of  experience.  When  he  came  out  of  the  car- 
penter's yard,  for  instance,  he  had  a  practical  under- 
standing of  the  detail  and  methods  of  joinery,  but 
he  could  not  with  his  own  hands  have  performed  the 
simplest  operations  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  fore- 
man. And  naturally  his  fellow  workers  made  the 
most  of  their  obvious  superiority.  Some  of  them 
were  more  kindly  than  others  in  their  treatment  of 
him,  but  on  the  whole,  Stephen  was  very  effectively 
bullied  at  the  works.  In  time,  he  learnt  to  stand 
up  for  himself.  Before  his  three  years  were  up,  he 
had  had  more  than  one  fight  with  youngsters  some- 
where about  his  own  age.  But  there  were  moments 
in  the  first  twelve  months  of  his  apprenticeship,  when 
he  wondered  whether,  in  Dickinson's  phrase,  he 
would  be  able  to  stick  it. 

And  it  was  still  a  relief  to  him  when  nearly  at 
the  end  of  his  time,  he  was  sent  up  to  Middlesbrough 
for  three  months  experience  of  the  steel  trade  on  its 
application  to  building.  He  was  frankly  a  visitor 
there,  permitted  the  free  run  of  the  offices  and  works 
by  the  courtesy  of  the  firm,  extended  to  their  old 
friend  and  good  customer,  James  Dickinson. 

When  Stephen  returned  from  the  North,  he  had 
no  idea  what  was  to  be  the  next  phase  of  his  ap- 
prenticeship which  had  still  two  years  to  run.  He 
was  only  twenty-two,  then,  but  in  many  ways  he  was 
old  for  his  age.     He  had  gained  immensely  in  knowl- 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        137 

edge,  in  self-confidence  and  in  physical  development 
since  he  had  left  school.  He  had  had  to  face  the 
coarseness  of  life,  and  it  had  long  since  ceased  to 
shock  him,  although  it  had  failed  to  blunt  the  fine 
edge  of  his  personal  fastidiousness  in  matters  apper- 
taining to  sex.  In  that  relation  he  made  what  was 
fundamentally  a  false  distinction  by  ranging  women 
into  classes.  In  one  class,  still  supreme,  and  un- 
substantial as  a  fairy  princess,  was  his  ideal  of  Mar- 
garet Weatherley.  In  another,  all  the  respectable 
women  of  his  acquaintance  from  Lady  Constance 
Olivier  down  to  his  own  sisters.  All  the  women  in 
this  group  were,  from  Stephen's  view-point,  prac- 
tically sexless.  In  the  lowest  group  were  the  girls, 
work-girls  for  the  most  part,  who  permitted  "  liber- 
ties." They  were  "  fair  game,"  according  to  the 
ethic  he  had  learnt  from  his  fellow-workmen;  al- 
though Stephen,  himself,  had  not  as  yet  figured  in  the 
role  of  the  hunter.  His  personal  fastidiousness  had 
saved  him  from  that,  so  far.  .  .   . 

Any  doubt  as  to  the  next  course  in  his  training  was 
resolved  by  Mr.  Dickinson  on  the  first  evening  of 
Stephen's  return  from  Middlesbrough.  His  em- 
ployer met  him  at  the  Great  Northern  Station  and 
took  him  up  to  supper  at  the  house  in  Lincoln  Road, 
—  still  kept  on,  although  there  was  no  kin  of  James 
Dickinson's  to  share  his  splendor. 

Stephen  was  to  go  as  clerk  of  the  works  to  a  new 
job  at  Leicester,  already  begun  to  the  extent  that  the 
house-breakers  had  started  to  clear  the  site.  He 
was  to  spend  a  fortnight  at  Medborough  studying 
the  bill  of  quantities,  the  plans  and  specifications,  the 
framings  and  other  preparations  that  were  already 
in  hand  at  the  works, —  all  under  the  directing  advice 
and  personal  supervision  of  his  chief. 

11  It'll  be  a  good  job  for  you  to  start  on,"  was  Mr, 


138        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

Dickinson's  summary.  "Technical  schools;  the 
contract's  for  £28,000,  and  the  architect  is  Owen 
Bradley,  whose  name'll  be  familiar  to  you.  He's  a 
hard  man  to  deal  with,  but  he  knows  his  work,  and 
there'll  be  no  misunderstandings.  I  remember  his 
winning  the  Birchester  Offices  competition.  Wil- 
coxes  were  the  contractors,  and  though  that  was  Mr. 
Bradley's  first  job  in  private  practice,  George  Wil- 
cox told  me  that  they  made  precious  little  profit  out 
of  it.  Bradley  was  a  hard  man  of  business,  he  said. 
That  was  in  '88,  twenty  years  ago.  I've  never  done 
a  job  for  him  before,  but  I  want  to  keep  in  with  him. 
He's  a  warm  man  is  Mr.  Bradley." 

Stephen  was  elated  but  a  little  nervous.  He  did 
not  under-estimate  the  responsibilities  of  a  builder's 
clerk  of  works. 

He  was  to  have  another  pound  a  week  to  cover  the 
expenses  of  living  away  from  home,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  quite  a  magnificent  salary,  as  he  had,  now, 
nio  outside  drain  on  his  resources.  Emily  was  keep- 
ing herself;  earning  £120  a  year  as  third  mistress  at 
the  Council  School;  and  Hilda  had  married  a  widow- 
er of  forty,  George  Cummin  the  chemist  in  Priest- 
gate.  He  had  once  been  in  financial  difficulties,  but 
had  pulled  his  business  round  and  was  now  one  of 
the  town's  respected  citizens!  A  stupid,  reliable 
sort  of  man,  in  Stephen's  opinion.  He  could  not 
imagine  what  Hilda  had  seen  in  Mr.  Cummin  to 
tempt  her  to  marry  him. 


It  was  in  Leicester  that  Stephen  first  approached 
and  then  somewhat  abruptly  retreated  from  the  snare 
of  sex. 

She   was   a    fair,    rather   too   plump   woman   of 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        139 

twenty-eight  passing  as  a  widow  with  one  little  girl 
nine  years  old,  and  she  was  the  attendant  of  one 
of  the  principal  lending  libraries  in  the  town. 

Stephen  had  been  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere  of 
books  and  he  continued  to  read  anything  that  came 
in  his  way,  almost  by  habit.  When  he  found  him- 
self set  down  in  Leicester  for  at  least  twelve  months, 
without  the  possibility  of  access  to  the  store  which 
his  father's  successor,  Henry  Walker,  had  always 
allowed  him  to  draw  upon,  Stephen  decided  at  once 
that  his  income  permitted  him  to  take  out  a  subscrip- 
tion to  a  lending  library.  And  he  happened  to 
choose  the  one  in  which  Bessie  Ward  served  as  an 
assistant. 

She  "  fancied  "  Stephen  from  the  first  moment  she 
set  eyes  on  him.  She  liked  men  to  be  dark  and 
rather  tall,  with  a  brusque,  slightly  arrogant  manner 
that  was  probably  assumed  to  hide  the  grave  tender- 
ness expressed  by  dark  blue  eyes.  Also,  she  found 
Stephen's  youth  and  his  air  of  inexperience  in  speak- 
ing to  women,  particularly  attractive. 

Stephen,  on  his  side,  was  tempted  by  her  relative 
maturity,  by  the  way  the  pretty  fair  hair  grew  on 
her  forehead,  by  the  lines  of  her  mouth,  and  most 
definitely  by  her  obvious  approval  of  him. 

She  talked  to  him  with  ease  and  fluency  when  he 
came  to  open  his  subscription,  and  choose  his  first 
book.  She  had  an  almost  scholarly  knowledge  of 
the  works  of  the  modern  novelists,  although  she 
was  clever  enough  to  reserve  her  judgment  upon 
them  until  she  had  gathered  the  trend  of  the  young 
man's  own  tastes.  She  had  sized  him  up  from  the 
outset  as  being  "  clever."  His  hands  still  bore  the 
disfigurements  of  his  work  in  the  shops,  but  she  was 
sure  that  he  "  wasn't  a  bit  common."  She  guessed 
that  he  might  be  an  engineer. 


i4o       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

The  second  time  he  went  to  the  library  the  place 
was  full  of  other  subscribers,  but  just  as  he  was 
leaving  she  managed  to  give  him  a  broad  hint  of  her 
preference  for  his  society. 

u  I'm  sorry  I'm  so  busy  this  evening,  Mr.  Kirk- 
wood,"  she  said  in  an  undertone,  as  she  entered  the 
title  of  his  book;  "  the  morning  before  twelve's  my 
free-est  time.  But  perhaps,  you  can't  get  away 
then?" 

"  Oh !  thanks.  I'll  remember  that,"  was  all 
Stephen  could  find  to  say,  but  he  reflected  on  the 
implications  of  her  speech  when  he  was  back  at  his 
lodgings;  and  found  them  pleasantly  exciting.  She 
had  remembered  his  name,  and  had  told  him  in  so 
many  words  that  she  wanted  to  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  talking  with  him  alone.  The  site  of  the 
New  Technical  Schools  was  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  library  and  he  decided  that  he  would  find 
time  to  run  up  one  morning  about  eleven. 

When  he  went  at  last,  after  putting  off  the  ad- 
venture for  the  best  part  of  a  week  from  sheer  nerv- 
ousness, he  went  in  a  spirit  of  bravado,  trying  very 
hard  to  be  a  man  of  the  world  and  quaking  inwardly. 
This  woman  would  not  fit  into  any  of  his  categories. 
She  could  not  be  classed  as  a  "  girl  "  in  the  sense 
he  used  the  word;  nor  on  the  other  hand  could  he 
fit  her  imaginatively  into  that  immense  group  that 
held  the  Bishop's  wife  and  his  own  sisters.  She  ap- 
peared in  fact  to  need  a  special  class  all  to  herself; 
and  gained  prestige  in  his  estimation,  accordingly. 
She  had  come  out  of  the  vague  background  of  his 
generalizations,  and  was  posed  clearly,  even  danger- 
ously, before  him,  as  an  individual  and  rather  at- 
tractive woman. 

He  found  her  alone  at  the  library,  but  he  did  not 
stay   long   and   their   conversation   was   exclusively 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        141 

about  his  choice  of  another  book;  and  free  from 
innuendo,  although  the  subject  bristled  with  oppor- 
tunities. She  refrained  because  she  was  afraid  of 
scaring  him. 

Nevertheless  Stephen  knew  perfectly  well  that 
this  new  acquaintanceship  might,  if  he  wished  it, 
ripen  into  an  adventure;  and  the  thought,  curiously, 
made  him  tremble.  He  would  approach  the  idea  of 
possible  eventualities  in  imagination,  and  then  hastily 
put  them  out  of  his  mind  with  something  like  terror. 
And  a  few  hours  later,  he  would  be  laughing  at  him- 
self, and  girding  himself  on  to  greater  liberties  of 
speculation. 

It  was  during  one  of  these  reactions  that  he  went 
to  the  library  for  the  fourth  time,  again  in  the  morn- 
ing. And  it  was  on  this  occasion  that  while  she  was 
stretching  out  her  left  hand  to  take  a  book  down 
from  him,  he  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  she  wore 
a  wedding  ring.  The  sight  of  it  gave  him  courage. 
For  a  moment,  Bessie  Ward  was  merged  again  into 
the  annihilating  class  of  married  women. 

"  Are  you  married?  "  he  asked  simply. 

She  looked  down  at  her  ring  and  nodded. 
"  Worse  luck,"  she  murmured. 

"Why?  Isn't  he—  Don't  you  get  on?" 
Stephen  asked. 

"  Haven't  seen  him  for  nearly  four  years,"  she 
said,  still  modestly  downcast.  "  He  was  in  America 
last  time  I  heard  of  him  about  ten  months  ago." 
She  lowered  her  voice  still  further  as  she  added,  "  I 
pretend  I'm  a  widow,  here." 

Stephen  did  not  know  what  to  say.  The  frank- 
ness of  her  admission  had  a  significance  that  he  had 
instantly  realized.  She  had,  he  felt,  practically  con- 
fessed that  she  belonged  to  that  group  the  members 
of  which  were  "  fair  game."     He  looked  down  at 


H2        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

her  fair  hair  and  the  rather  too  bountiful  curves  of 
her  figure  and  wondered  if  he  wanted  to  embrace  her. 
He  rather  thought  not;  but  he  wasn't  at  all  sure. 

"  Do  you  ever  go  to  the  cinemas?  "  he  asked  sud- 
denly. 

"  Sometimes;  when  I  can  get  any  one  to  take  me," 
she  replied,  clinching  his  advance. 

Stephen  found  that  his  knees  were  trembling.  It 
was  in  a  spasm  of  disgust  with  his  own  weakness  that 
he  continued.  "  Have  you  got  anything  to  do  to- 
night?    Would  you  care  to  come  with  me?  " 

They  made  an  appointment  at  the  "  Royal  Cinema 
Theater  "  for  half-past  eight,  and  Stephen  stalked 
out  of  the  shop  fully  determined  to  be  a  man.  From 
first  to  last,  Bessie  had  behaved  with  a  modesty  thut 
was  far  more  suggestive  than  any  boldness.  She 
had  implied  so  unmistakably  that  Stephen  was  mak- 
ing love  to  her,  and  that  she  was  his  timorous  but 
willing  victim. 

As  he  sat  over  his  supper,  Stephen  was  engaged 
in  a  tremendous  battle  with  his  nervousness.  Once 
or  twice  he  was  on  the  verge  of  deciding  to  break 
the  engagement.  He  kept  it  in  the  end,  not  out  of 
any  consideration  for  Bessie  Ward,  but  because  he 
was  ashamed  of  his  own  hesitations.  He  tried  to 
stimulate  his  virility  by  recalling  various  conversa- 
tions he  had  heard  in  the  u  shops." 

And  during  the  performance  at  the  Cinema  The- 
ater, he  was  still  occupied  with  his  own  immense 
internal  conflict  rather  than  with  the  attractions  of 
his  companion.  When  she  pressed  her  plump  shoul- 
der against  him  in  the  darkness  of  the  auditorium, 
he  responded  with  an  answering  pressure,  solely  to 
convince  himself  how  bold  he  could  be. 

In  1908,  the  exhibitions  at  the  "  picture  palaces  " 
did  not  consist  as  they  do  now  of  one  long  "  drama  " 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        143 

that  constitutes  the  whole  performance,  but  of  a 
series  of  short  films  lasting  from  ten  minutes  to  half- 
an-hour,  each  of  which  presented  a  story;  the  comic 
and  romantic  usually  alternating.  The  audience 
came  and  went  as  it  suited  them;  and  Stephen  and 
Bessie  Ward  had  not  been  in  the  place  an  hour  when 
she  suggested  that  they  had  had  enough  for  one 
evening. 

11  Just  as  you  like,"  Stephen  agreed.  "  Do  you 
want  to  go  home,  now?"  He  was  surprised  that 
she  should  want  to  go  so  soon. 

"  It  isn't  far,"  she  said.  "  We  can  get  there  on 
the  tram  in  ten  minutes."  The  lights  were  up  be- 
tween two  items  of  the  program,  and  she  looked 
up  at  him  with  the  same  air  of  modest  compliance 
with  his  wishes  that  she  had  worn  in  the  library. 

Stephen  had  not  imagined  that  they  would  go  so 
far,  that  evening,  but  he  tried  to  hide  the  spasm  of 
disconcertion  that  attacked  him. 

"  All  right,"  he  said  brusquely.  "  Come  along 
before  the  lights  go  down." 

It  was  in  the  tram  that  he  definitely  made  up  his 
mind  to  "  go  through  with  it." 

He  affected  a  gallant  air  of  willingness  when  she 
asked  him  at  the  door  of  her  little  house  whether 
he  wouldn't  come  in  and  have  a  cup  of  cocoa ;  but  he 
felt  cold  and  sick  and  horribly  nervous. 

And  the  consciousness  that  the  whole  affair  was  in 
some  unrealizable  way  completely  wrong  and  im- 
possible grew  steadily  as  she  prepared  the  cocoa  she 
had  promised  him.  The  more  closely  he  looked  at 
her,  the  less  did  he  feel  stimulated  to  make  love  to 
her.  He  was  no  longer  flattered  by  her  preference 
for  him  but  rather  repelled.  Deep  down  in  his  being 
some  part  of  him  was  striving  desperately  not  to 
recognize  a  likeness  between  Bessie  Ward's  choice 


144       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

of  himself  and  his  mother's  submission  to  Chris- 
topher Threlfall. 

Nevertheless  he  was  still  goading  himself  on  to 
go  through  with  it.  He  had  a  feeling  that  to  shirk 
was  in  some  way  a  denial  of  his  manhood.  .  .  . 

Bessie,  meanwhile,  was  striving  to  overcome  what 
she  believed  to  be  nothing  more  than  the  natural 
shyness  of  youth.  She  made  him  sit  beside  her  on 
the  uncomfortable  sofa  while  he  sipped  his  cocoa, 
and  tried  to  draw  him  out  about  his  own  affairs; 
what  he  was  doing,  where  he  came  from,  how  long  he 
was  going  to  stay  in  Leicester. 

He  grasped  at  that  opportunity  to  postpone  mak- 
ing love  to  her.  As  a  companion  she  appealed  to 
him,  and  if  she  had  taken  less  for  granted  and  been 
content  to  wait  until  their  friendship  slowly  ripened, 
the  outcome  might  have  been  other  than  it  actually 
was.  But  Bessie  Ward's  experience  of  men,  though 
fairly  extensive,  had  been  limited  in  kind.  After  a 
few  minutes  devoted  to  this  kind  of  conversation,  she 
began  to  practice  her  little  arts  of  allurement. 

I  fancied  you  the  first  time  I  saw  you,"  she  said, 
presently,  and  snuggled  a  little  nearer  to  him. 

Stephen  could  see  but  three  replies  to  this  advance: 
to  put  his  arm  round  her,  to  hold  her  hand,  or  to  sit 
with  his  arm  wedged  to  his  side,  feeling,  and  no  doubt 
looking,  a  fool.  He  chose  the  first.  How  extraor- 
dinarily solid  she  was !  She  was  wearing  a  brown 
dress  of  some  rough  material,  and  it  came  into  his 
mind  that  embracing  her  was  like  hugging  a  well- 
filled  sack.  So  far  as  the  effect  upon  his  feelings 
was  concerned,  the  sack  would  have  done  equally 
well. 

She  looked  up  at  him  archly. 

There  was  no  retreat  now  for  a  man  of  honor. 
He  kissed  her  —  respectfully. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        145 

She  laughed  at  his  deliberation.  "  You  are  a 
funny  boy,"  she  chided  him.  "  One  might  think  I 
was  your  mother.  I'm  not  quite  old  enough  for 
that,  you  know.     I'm  only  just  twenty-eight." 

That  reference  used  as  a  simile  finished  Stephen. 
The  obscure  resistance  that  he  had  been  fighting  to 
overcome  was  no  longer  a  physical  inertia;  it  had 
become  a  positive  impulse. 

He  shuddered,  withdrew  his  arm,  and  stood  up. 

11  I'm  sorry.  I  —  I'm  ...  a  bit  off  color  to- 
night," he  stammered.  "  Do  you  mind  if  I  go, 
now?" 

No  liberty  he  might  have  attempted  would  have 
produced  such  a  blush  on  Bessie  Ward's  face  as  did 
this  abrupt  rejection  of  her  advances.  She  was 
suddenly  hurt  and  embarrassed.  "  I'm  sure  I  don't 
want  you  to  stop,  if  you  don't  —  if  you're  not  well," 
she  replied,  saving  her  retort  from  bitterness  at  the 
last  moment. 

"  I  expect  I've  been  smoking  too  much  or  some- 
thing," he  apologized.  He  didn't  want  to  offend 
her.  He  did  not  despise  her  for  having  made  ad- 
vances to  him.  But  he  felt  an  overpowering  desire 
to  get  away  from  her. 

His  excuse  was  not  ill-chosen.  By  the  white  light 
of  the  incandescent  gas-mantle,  Bessie  could  see  that 
his  face  was  bloodless  under  his  sunburn. 

"  Don't  feel  faint,  do  you?  "  she  asked  anxiously. 

"A  bit,"  Stephen  replied.  "  I'll  be  all  right 
when  I  get  outside.  Don't  you  come  to  the  door." 
His  way  of  escape  lay  immediately  open  before  him, 
now;  and  he  snatched  up  his  hat  and  rushed  out  of 
the  house  with  the  intent  haste  of  a  man  who  expects 
to  be  immediately  sick. 

Bessie,  no  doubt,  composed  a  variety  of  amusing 
comments  on  his  behavior,  after  he  had  gone;  but 


i46       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

she  never  had  a  chance  to  deliver  them.  Stephen 
could  not  face  her  again.  After  that  incident,  he 
sent  a  messenger  from  the  works  to  change  his  book 
for  him;  and  when  his  three  months  subscription  was 
up,  he  changed  his  library. 

He  saw  her  once  in  the  street,  some  five  months 
later.  She  was  leaning  affectionately  on  the  arm  of 
a  tall  dark  man  who  was  obviously  not  averse  to  her 
society.  Stephen  had  quite  recovered  from  his  re- 
vulsion of  feeling  by  then,  and  cursed  himself  for 
having  been  such  a  fool.  He  wondered  why  he  had 
not  taken  advantage  of  such  an  attractive  opportun- 
ity when  it  had  been  offered  to  him. 

8 

He  stayed  in  Leicester  for  nearly  ten  months,  and 
was  then  transferred  to  take  charge  of  a  new  job 
just  beginning  in  -Northampton.  His  move  was  by 
way  of  being  a  mark  of  Mr.  Dickinson's  approval. 
His  praise  of  Stephen  was  something  indirect,  but 
he  implied  that  any  one  could  now  look  after  the 
technical  schools,  supervised  as  they  were  by  so  re- 
liable and  painstaking  an  architect  as  Owen  Bradley; 
whereas  the  design  for  the  Northampton  job, —  a 
boot-factory, —  was  by  a  comparatively  young  and 
inexperienced  man,  and  might  lead  to  all  sorts  of 
disasters,  if  it  were  not  carefully  watched. 

Stephen  was  glad  of  the  change,  although  the 
towns  of  Leicester  and  Northampton  are  rather  sim- 
ilar in  type,  as  though  the  spirit  of  boot-making  had 
managed  to  express  itself  in  the  material  body  of  the 
buildings.  He  was  not  however  destined  to  stay 
long  in  Northampton  for  in  the  following  November 
he  was  recalled  to  Medborough  to  work  on  a  tender 
that  was  to  be  sent  in  for  a  £150,000  job  in  London, 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        147 

a  building  for  which  Bradley  was  again  the  architect. 

14  I  think  we're  going  to  get  it,"  Mr.  Dickinson 
explained.  "  Mr.  Bradley  was  pleased  with  our 
work  in  Leicester,  and  mentioned  you  to  me  as  a 
promising  youngster  —  said  you  were  more  intelli- 
gent than  the  ordinary  builder's  clerk  of  works. 
And  if  we  get  this  contract,  I  shall  send  you  up  to 
London  to  see  the  job  right  through  —  it'll  take 
two  years.  Anyway  it'll  be  as  well  for  you  to  get 
the  work  well  into  your  head  from  the  very  start. 
You'd  better  go  up  to  town  and  take  a  day  at  the 
drawings  in  Mr.  Bradley's  office,  as  soon  as  you've 
studied  the  bill  of  quantities."  He  paused  and 
looked  at  Stephen  with  a  friendly  smile  as  he  con- 
tinued.    "  Feel  as  if  you're  getting  on,  eh?  " 

"  Are  you  satisfied  with  me,  sir?  "  Stephen  asked. 
"  Do  you  think  you  can  trust  me  to  look  after  a  big 
job  like  this?  " 

"  Well,  you  haven't  done  so  badly  for  a  beginner," 
Mr.  Dickinson  said,  stroking  his  neat  little  pointed 
gray  beard.  "  Let's  see;  your  seven  years  won't  be 
up  till  next  September." 

"  No,  sir." 

"  But  you'll  need  more  than  four  pounds  a  week, 
if  we  get  this  job  o'  Bradley's.  Anyway  you  can 
draw  on  me  for  three  hundred  a  year,  as  from  the 
beginning  of  next  January.  And  when  you've  car- 
ried this  job  through,  if  we  get  it,  we  can  talk  of  a 
new  arrangement.     I  think  I  can  find  a  use  for  you." 

11  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,  sir,"  Stephen 
said,  his  face  bright  with  emotion.  It  was  not 
every  young  man  of  twenty-three, —  he  would  not 
be  twenty-four  until  the  following  February  —  who 
was  earning  £300  a  year,  with  the  prospect  of  some 
highly  attractive  "  new  arrangement  "  at  the  end  of 
another  two  years.     He  could  only  infer  from  his 


148       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

chief's  slightly  quizzical  manner  that  the  new  ar- 
rangement would  mean  a  considerable  rise. 

Thank  yourself,"  Mr.  Dickinson  said. 
"  You've  got  three  qualities  to  be  proud  of.  You're 
intelligent,  you're  trustworthy,  and  you're  reasonably 
diligent.  They're  the  qualities  I  was  looking  for, 
and  I'm  inclined  to  congratulate  myself  on  having 
picked  you  out  at  the  first  shot.  I  wasn't  looking  for 
geniuses;  though  one  or  two  of  your  suggestions 
about  that  factory  at  Northampton  were  pretty- 
smart  for  a  youngster." 

After  that  conversation,  Stephen  began  to  take 
himself  more  seriously.  He  felt  that  he  was,  in  a 
sense,  a  made  man  already,  and  that  the  future  might 
hold  many  dignities  for  him.  He  might  one  day,  for 
example,  be  Mayor  of  Medborough! 

Eighteen  months  experience  as  a  clerk  of  the 
works  had  stiffened  his  manner  and  given  him  con- 
fidence. In  the  Stretton  office,  one  or  two  of  the 
estimating  clerks  who  had  given  him  his  orders  when 
he  first  came  there,  told  each  other  that  young  Kirk- 
wood  was  "  getting  too  cocky."  But  no  hint  of  this 
opinion  reached  Stephen,  himself.  It  was  common 
talk  among  the  employees  of  the  firm,  now,  that  he 
might  be  a  partner  in  the  near  future. 

And  when  James  Dickinson's  tender  was  accepted 
for  the  big  London  job,  there  was  a  paragraph  in  the 
Medboro'  Advertiser,  which  after  paying  the  con- 
ventional compliments  to  Mr.  Dickinson's  success, 
went  on  to  mention  the  fact  that  Mr.  Stephen  Kirk- 
wood  was  to  have  the  supervision  of  the  work,  and 
to  congratulate  him  on  the  appointment. 

"  You  are  getting  on,"  Hilda  said,  when  she  next 
met  her  brother  after  this  paragraph  appeared. 
"  Quite  a  public  man  you'll  be  soon." 

"Not  so  bad,"  agreed  Stephen  with  a  grin. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        149 

"  You'll  be  too  proud  to  know  us  when  you  come 
back  from  London,"  Hilda  continued. 

11  Got  nothing  to  be  proud  about,"  Stephen  said. 
"  It's  just  luck  and  Mr.  Dickinson's  kindness." 

He  wondered  sometimes  whether  he  should  meet 
Hall  secundus  in  London.  He  had  been  on  the  staff 
of  some  paper  in  Fleet  Street,  for  the  past  thfee  or 
four  years;  and  of  all  the  boys  Stephen  had  known 
at  the  King's  School,  Hall  was  the  only  one  to  whom 
he  would  have  liked  to  boast  of  his  success.  Young 
Hall  had  always  been  inclined  to  put  on  airs  of 
superiority.  Moreover  Stephen  still  nourished  a 
grudge  against  him  for  his  disloyalty  in  the  matter 
of  Margaret  Weatherley's  smile. 

Perhaps  she  was  living  in  London,  too,  but  he 
never  dreamed  of  her,  now;  very  rarely  thought  of 
her.  And  since  he  had  come  back  from  Northamp- 
ton, he  had  been  engaged  in  a  tentative  flirtation  with 
his  cousin,  Phyllis  Bell.  She  was  a  tall,  rather  fair 
girl  of  twenty-one,  with  good  features  that,  in  re- 
pose, were  almost  beautiful.  Unfortunately  she 
spoilt  her  effect  when  she  talked  or  laughed.  Her 
mouth  had  a  tendency  to  writhe  when  she  became  the 
least  animated,  producing  in  some  indefinable  way  an 
impression  of  vulgarity. 

It  was  this  defect  that  saved  Stephen  from  pro- 
posing to  her  the  evening  before  he  went  to  town 
to  take  over  his  new  work.  Mrs.  Bell  had  never 
favored  any  sort  of  intimacy  between  her  two  girls 
and  their  three  cousins  in  Long  Causeway.  ^  She  had 
often  secretly  deplored  the  relationship  as  imposing 
an  additional  and  annoying  obstacle  between  her  and 
the  attainment  of  her  important  social  ambitions. 
But  now  that  her  brother  was  dead,  and  Stephen 
likely  to  become  an  important  person  in  the  life  of 
the  town,  she  had  not  opposed  his  flirtation  with 


i5o       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

Phyllis.  She  had  heard  good  reports  of  him  from 
the  influential  and  trusted  Adam  Neale,  who  had  two 
years  before  been  taken  into  partnership  by  Mr. 
Folliett.  Neale  had  spoken  of  Stephen  as  a  "  like- 
ly "  young  man,  and  hinted  that  as  James  Dickinson's 
protege,  he  would  eventually  occupy  an  important 
position  in  the  town.  He  further  ventured  the  opin- 
ion that  Stephen  had  his  he*ad  screwed  on  the  right 
way.  After  that  judgment,  Mrs.  Bell  had  finally 
overcome  her  natural  reluctance  to  encourage  the 
son  of  Andrew  and  Cecilia  Kirkwood,  and  had  per- 
suaded herself  that,  after  all,  "  Phyllis  might  do 
worse."  She  even  went  the  length  of  leaving  her 
elder  daughter  and  Stephen  alone  together  in  the 
drawing-room,  when  he  came  to  say  good-by  to 
them,  on  the  night  before  he  went  to  town. 

Unhappily  for  the  success  of  her  scheme,  Phyllis 
who  was  quite  unaware  of  her  defect,  happened  to 
be  in  an  unusually  lively  mood  that  night;  and 
Stephen  who  had  had  a  vague  idea  that  he  might 
propose  to  her  that  evening,  found  his  cousin's  writh- 
ing mouth  a  justifiable  excuse  for  postponing  his 
declaration.  When  she  was  quiet  and  apparently 
thoughtful,  he  admired  her  immensely.  But  as  he 
watched  her  on  this  occasion,  he  realized  quite  defi- 
nitely that  he  had  no  desire  to  be  mated  with  her  for 
the  rest  of  his  life.  He  would  have  liked  to  kiss 
her,  sacramentally,  if  she  would  keep  still;  but  he 
would  not  like  to  be  always  confronted  by  that  ex- 
pression which  so  strangely  dropped  her  into  the 
category  of  the  girls  who  were  fair  game."  He 
remembered  seeing  factory  girls  in  Leicester  and 
Northampton  who  had  had  just  that  same  uncon- 
trollable twist  of  the  mouth  when  they  laughed. 


IV 


STEPHEN  took  a  room  in  Camberwell  on  the 
recommendation  of  the  Works  Foreman,  who 
"knew"  London,  having  been  employed  there  on 
two  previous  jobs.  Stephen,  himself,  could  only 
boast  the  slightest  acquaintance  with  London.  He 
had  visited  it  five  times  altogether,  in  the  course  of 
his  life;  but  as  each  visit  had  only  presented  the  ex- 
perience of  a  day's  excursion,  his  knowledge  was 
confined  to  such  places  of  interest  as  the  Tower, 
Madame  Tussaud's,  Earl's  Court,  The  White  City, 
St.  Paul's,  The  British  Museum,  the  Albert  and 
Queen's  Halls,  The  Monument,  the  Coliseum  and 
other  centers  of  amusement.  To  all  of  these  he 
had  gone  at  some  time  or  another  between  the  ages 
of  nine  and  seventeen  in  company  with  his  mother. 
The  memory  of  her  was  his  one  pervading  associa- 
tion with  these  experiences.  But  about  this  focus 
were  arranged  an  endless  series  of  bright  little  pic- 
tures: of  Emily  staring  enormously  at  the  British 
Museum;  of  Hilda  yawning  and  looking  about  her 
at  a  Queen's  Hall  concert;  of  his  father  very  intent 
on  a  bill  of  fare  ordering  supper  at  a  big  restaurant 
just  opposite  King's  Cross  Station.  Of  Camberwell 
he  knew  nothing  except  that  the  name  was  in  some 
way  a  joke  connected  with  a  comic  song  he  had  heard 
Albert  Chevalier  sing  on  the  one  occasion  on  which 

151 


152       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

he  had  visited  Medboro'.  It  had  been  an  old  song, 
then,  but  had  been  given  "  by  request." 

Stephen's  attitude  towards  London  as  a  whole, 
was  at  the  outset,  typically  provincial.  He  was  both 
awed  and  critical.  The  size  of  the  place,  the  mass 
of  the  buildings,  the  traffic  and  the  vast  indifference 
of  the  enormous  population  made  him  feel  small, 
strange  and  insignificant;  and  as  a  relief  from  the 
oppression  begotten  by  his  sense  of  inferiority  he 
sought  to  criticize  London  in  those  immediate  details 
which  were  most  closely  presented  to  him.  He 
could  begin  with  the  eggs  served  for  his  breakfast, 
and  mark  a  distinct  point  in  favor  of  Medboro' ; 
ending  perhaps  with  generalizations  about  Camber- 
well  and  the  district  between  it  and  his  work  on  the 
Embankment,  that  revealed  London,  south  of  the 
Thames,  as  lacking  a  dozen  graces  and  virtues  pos- 
sessed by  his  native  city. 

But  within  a  month  he  had  settled  down  to  the 
common  differentiation  between  just  that  district 
which  became  almost  tediously  familiar  to  him  in 
his  daily  routine,  and  the  entire  remainder  of  the 
immensity.  The  first  became  to  him  a  kind  of  home, 
his  own  fjy  reason  of  his  intimate  knowledge  of  it. 
From  that  center  he  set  out  to  explore,  at  first  timidly 
and  with  a  sense  of  daring,  the  great,  intimidating 
remainder  that  seemed  to  have  no  limit  to  its  per- 
plexing extensions. 

In  these  Saturday  afternoon,  and  Sunday  explora- 
tions, he  began  by  taking  as  his  object  some  one  or 
more  of  those  dimly  remembered  places  associated 
with  his  excursions  from  Medboro' ;  and  having  re- 
discovered such  goals  as  the  Tower,  the  Albert  Hall 
or  the  British  Museum,  he  mentally  related  them  to 
the  now  familiar  country  of  his  daily  experience. 
Afterwards  he  saw  in  his  mind's  eye  a  map  of  the 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 


153 


main  arteries,  and  so  adding  a  little  piece  here  and 
there  to  his  general  conception  of  the  place  as  a  col- 
lection of  districts  about  a  center,  he  arrived  within 
three  months  or  so  at  just  such  a  general  idea  of  the 
whole  as  is  common  to  the  average  Londoner  —  the 
difference  between  each  picture  depending  only  upon 
the  point  of  view,  namely  the  residential  district  of 
the  observer. 

In  the  course  of  this  process,  London  exhibited  a 
marked  tendency  to  shrink,  although  an  occasional 
new  discovery  such  as  Hampstead  Heath  or  the 
Mile  End  Road  would  for  a  time  mysteriously  dis- 
tend it  again. 

It  was  not  until  Stephen  had  thus  taken  the  more 
obvious  opportunities  for  discovery  afforded  by  Lon- 
don, that  he  began  to  feel  lonely. 

At  first,  his  loneliness  only  obtruded  itself  on 
Sunday.  On  week-days,  he  was  too  fully  occupied. 
He  reached  the  Embankment  every  morning  at  eight 
o'clock  and  often  stayed  there  until  eight  o'clock  in 
the  evening.  And  throughout  those  twelve  hours, 
his  attention  was  almost  completely  absorbed  by  his 
work.  By  the  time  he  got  home  and  had  had 
supper  he  was  ready  to  go  to  bed.  But  presently, 
he  began  to  be  aware  of  his  loneliness  at  odd  mo- 
ments even  in  the  busy  hours. 

There  was,  for  example,  a  morning  in  mid-April 
when  he  had  been  in  town  just  over  ten  weeks.  He 
had  gone  up  to  the  man  in  charge  of  the  derrick 
engine,  and  from  the  staging  of  the  gaunt  straddling 
tripod,  Stephen  looked  down  over  the  Thames  and 
the  valley  of  South  London,  to  the  swell  of  the  Sur- 
rey hills.  The  morning  was  clear  and  windy,  blow- 
ing up  for  rain,  and  through  the  tattered  banner  of 
driven  smoke,  he  could  see  a  bright  plan  in  relief  of 
endlessly  repeated  roofs,  rank  after  rank  and  tier 


154       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

after  tier  dwindling  into  the  vague  blue  masses  of 
the  distance.  He  could  pick  out  some  of  the  dis- 
tricts with  which  he  was  more  familiar :  Camberwell 
and  Kennington  were  pegged  out  for  him  by  their 
church  spires;  Denmark  Hill  in  the  distance  was 
recognizably  green;  and  here  and  there  a  factory,  a 
council-school,  a  gas-works  or  a  relatively  open  space 
marked  the  map  with  its  distinctive  signature. 

Stephen's  first  re-action  to  that  prospect  was  a 
feeling  of  thankfulness  that  they  had  got  in  the 
great  concrete  raft  which  was  the  foundation  of  the 
whole  building,  during  the  relatively  dry  weather  in 
March.  His  second,  a  sense  of  wonder  at  the  amaz- 
ing proliferation  of  houses  stretched  out  below  him. 
What  were  all  those  people  down  there  living  for? 
The  overwhelming  majority  of  them  probably  ended 
as  their  parents  had  ended  before  them.  They 
struggled  and  prospered,  or  failed,  for  fifty,  sixty  or 
seventy  years,  and  then  departed  leaving  no  mark  on 
their  generation;  at  best  bequeathing  their  habits  and 
opinions  to  children  who  would  carry  on  the  eternal 
succession. 

And  from  that,  he  came  to  a  consideration  of  his 
own  ambitions;  and  could  find  no  pleasure  in  the 
thought  of  them.  There  was  no  one  to  care  whether 
he  failed  or  succeeded;  and  he  passionately  wanted 
some  one  to  care.  Emily  and  Hilda  would  no  doubt 
care  in  a  way,  but  the  thought  of  their  admiration 
brought  him  little  comfort.  He  wanted  some  one  all 
his  own,  to  whom  he  would  be  the  essential  person  in 
life;  some  one  for  whom  he  in  his  turn  could  work; 
whom  he  could  make  happy.  Then  later  there 
would  be  his  children  to  live  and  work  for.  He 
would  like  to  have  children  of  his  own,  several  chil- 
dren: and  they  should  have  opportunities  that  had 
been  denied  to  him.     He  could  find  satisfaction  in 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        155 

making  money,  if  he  could  spend  it  on  making  his 
wife  and  children  happy. 

He  turned  to  find  the  engineer  beside  him  on  the 
staging. 

u  Blowing  up  for  wet,"  the  engineer  remarked 
and  spat  heedlessly  from  the  vast  height  of  the  der- 
rick down  into  the  remote  cavern  of  the  excavation 
out  of  which  the  swarms  of  workmen  were  labori- 
ously raising  the  great  erection  of  the  new  building. 
His  spittle  drifted  down  into  invisibility  long  before 
it  had  reached  its  casual  goal. 

"  Are  you  married?  "  asked  Stephen  suddenly. 

"  Ah !  married  this  twenty  year,"  the  engineer  re- 
plied. 

uAnd  children?" 

11  A  round  half  dozen,"  the  engineer  said.  "  Me 
eldest  boy's  down  there  working  on  the  sump ;  goin' 
to  be  a  bigger  man  than  his  father,  so  'e  says;  but  I 
tell  'im  'e's  at  the  very  bottom  o'  this  job  and  I'm 
at  the  top,  an'  it'll  take  'im  a  long  time  afore  he  gets 
as  'igh  as  I  am."  The  engineer  laughed  with  gusto 
at  his  own  joke,  and  sent  another  missile  down  to 
fall,  for  all  he  cared,  on  the  head  of  his  own  son.  .  .  . 

As  April  brightened  into  May,  the  idea  of  mar- 
riage both  as  a  remedy  for  loneliness  and  a  means  to 
justify  his  existence,  presented  itself  to  Stephen  with 
increasing  attractiveness.  He  had  once  heard  some 
one  say  to  his  father  that  the  man  who  married 
young  had  three  lives :  the  early  years  of  growth  and 
independence;  the  middle  years  of  responsibility: 
and  then  a  renewal  of  independence  in  old  age  when 
his  children  were  grown  up.  "  But  if  you  don't 
marry  till  you're  forty  or  more,"  this  man  had  said, 
"  your  children  are  hanging  round  your  neck  till  you 
die."  Stephen  remembered  that  saying,  now,  and 
it  added  another  to  his  growing  list  of  reasons  for 


156       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

an  early  marriage.  He  had  more  than  a  hundred 
pounds  put  by  already,  and  he  was  saving  another 
three  pounds  or  more  every  week  in  London.  The 
way  was  clear  before  him.  All  that  was  still  neces- 
sary was  to  find  a  wife. 

One  Saturday  evening  in  the  middle  of  May,  he 
went  out  to  look  for  one. 

The  pavements  about  Camberwell  Green  and  the 
bottom  of  the  Peckham  Road  were  gay  with  young 
women,  and  Stephen  decided  that  he  need  not  go 
further  than  that  in  the  prosecution  of  his  search. 
He  walked  up  and  down  and  round  about  and  stared 
with  a  look  of  attention  at  every  young  woman  who 
might  be  even  remotely  possible.  He  received 
more  than  one  response  to  his  stare;  but  directly  a 
girl  smiled  at  him,  he  was  overcome  with  shyness 
and  at  the  same  moment  seized  with  an  unshakeable 
conviction  that  this  particular  young  woman  would 
not  make  at  all  the  kind  of  wife  he  desired.  He  had 
no  ideal  clearly  before  him  but  he  knew  or  thought 
he  knew  what  he  didn't  like. 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  his  attention  was  caught 
by  the  figure  of  a  woman  of  twenty-five  or  so  with 
widely  set,  steady,  blue  eyes  and  fair  hair.  As  they 
met  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a  calm,  appraising 
stare  but  made  no  response  to  the  rather  sheepish 
smile  with  which  he  attempted  to  greet  her.  When 
she  had  passed,  he  looked  back  at  her,  hesitated,  and 
then  went  home.  Something  in  her  expression  had 
sickened  him  of  his  method  of  search.  "  No  decent 
girl,']  he  reflected,  "would  pick  up  a  fellow,  just 
meeting  him  like  that  in  the  street." 

When  he  went  out  the  next  morning,  he  had  de- 
cided that  he  must  somehow  or  other  make  the  ac- 
quaintance of  this  particular  young  woman.  She 
had  become  by  her  refusal  of  his  tentative  advance,  a 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       157 

difficult  and  desirable  creature  to  be  sought  after  and 
wooed;  and  the  more  he  thought  of  her  the  more 
convinced  he  became  that  she  was  the  ideal  wife  he 
sought.  He  did  not  see  her  that  Sunday,  and  after 
that  he  began  to  haunt  the  Green  every  evening. 

He  saw  her  for  the  second  time  on  the  following 
Wednesday,  about  seven  o'clock,  as  he  was  coming 
home  from  work.  She  was  looking  into  the  window 
of  a  draper's  shop,  and  he  stopped  a  couple  of  yards 
away  and  watched  her.  He  was  determined  that 
this  time  he  would  not  be  guilty  of  that  foolish 
smile.  When  she  turned  and  saw  him  watching,  he 
would  lift  his  hat  and  speak  to  her.  But  either  she 
did  not  see  him  or,  as  he  guessed  to  be  more  prob- 
able, preferred  to  give  him  no  chance  of  accosting 
her;  for  while  he  waited  she  turned  her  back  on  him 
and  walked  away.  He  did  not  like  to  follow  her  — 
to  do  that  would,  he  felt,  give  his  overtures  an  air 
of  persecution. 

The  opportunity  to  speak  to  her,  when  it  came  at 
last  had  the  effect  of  happy  coincidence  that  the  Fates 
apparently  delight  in  providing  when  they  are  not 
thereby  serving  our  desired  ends.  For  more  than  a 
week,  he  had  with  no  result  spent  every  evening  in 
looking  for  her  where  she  was,  presumably,  most 
likely  to  be  found;  and,  then,  one  Monday  afternoon 
he  came  upon  her  by  the  merest  accident  in  a  tea- 
shop  in  Holborn. 

He  had  been  at  Owen  Bradley's  office  in  Gray's 
Inn  discussing  a  proposed  substitution  in  the  scant- 
lings of  certain  rolled  steel  joists  on  the  fourth  floor; 
and  on  his  way  back  to  the  works,  he  felt  that  he 
wanted  a  cup  of  tea.  He  turned  in  to  the  nearest 
Lyons  and  there  sitting  alone  at  a  table  near  the  door 
was  his  lady  of  the  wide  blue  eyes. 

She  looked  at  him  without  alarm  or  embarrass- 


158        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

ment,  but  gave  him  no  kind  of  invitation  to  join 
her. 

Stephen  raised  his  hat,  blushed,  and  then  sum- 
moning all  his  courage  sat  down  at  her  table.  But 
having  done  that,  he  dared  not  look  at  her,  although 
he  felt  that  she  was  observing  him  with  the  same 
calm  air  of  self-possession  with  which  she  had  re- 
plied to  his  first  advances.  He  bent  slightly  forward 
over  the  table,  and  addressed  his  opening  remarks  to 
the  untidy  vestiges  of  some  one  else's  tea. 

11  Of  course  you'll  think  this  is  just  beastly  cheek," 
he  mumbled.  "  But  it  isn't  really.  I  mean  you 
needn't  think  I'm  just  the  usual  kind  of  rotter  who 
does  this  sort  of  thing." 

Stephen  had  two  manners  of  speech.  The  first  of 
them,  the  one  he  naturally  adopted,  now,  was  the 
result  of  the  King's  School  influence,  very  ably  reen- 
forced  by  that  of  his  mother.  She  had  taken  great 
pains  with  him  in  this  particular,  and  he  had  been  a 
fairly  apt  pupil.  His  second  manner  was  a  degen- 
erate habit  learnt  in  the  shops  and  in  the  works;  and 
marked  an  effort  of  condescension.  He  was  afraid 
that  the  men  would  think  he  was  putting  on  side  if  he 
talked  to  them  in  his  other  voice. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  Why  do  you  want  to  know 
me?  "  she  asked  calmly. 

He  dared  to  look  at  her  then,  and  found  that  she 
was  watching  him  with  an  expression  that  was  slightly 
puzzled  but  by  no  means  resentful. 

14 1  —  I  wanted  to  get  to  know  some  nice  girl, 
and  talk  to  her,"  he  said. 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

11  Well,  I'm  rather  lonely  for  one  thing,"  he  ex- 
plained. 

"And  for  another?" 

"I  —  I  want  to  get  married,"  Stephen  blurted  out. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        159 

She  laughed  at  that,  a  pleasant,  honest  laugh  of 
genuine  amusement.  "  This  afternoon?"  she  sug- 
gested. "  Or  could  you  manage  to  wait  till  the  end 
of  the  week?  " 

Stephen  smiled.  "  It's  so  hard  to  get  to  know 
really  decent  girls/'  he  said. 

"  And  you  thought  I  looked  really  decent?"  she 
enquired. 

Stephen  nodded.  "  It's  frightful  cheek,  I  know," 
he  admitted. 

11  And  you  thought  you'd  like  to  marry  me?  "  she 
persisted. 

Stephen  blushed.  "  I  thought  I'd  like  to  know 
you,"  he  said. 

She  dropped  her  tone  of  persiflage  as  she  replied. 
"  I'm  sorry  —  for  you,  I  mean,  if  that  doesn't  sound 
too  conceited  —  but  I'm  engaged  already.  Have 
been  for  the  last  five  years.  He's  been  in  Canada 
for  nearly  four  and  I'm  going  out  to  him,  to  be  mar- 
ried, this  autumn." 

Stephen  realized  instantly  both  the  truth  of  her 
statement  and  the  unassailability  of  her  decision. 
She  was  the  kind  of  dependable  steadfast  woman 
who  would  be  everlastingly  faithful  to  one  lover. 
Also,  she  was  even  prettier  than  he  had  thought. 
He  was  quite  convinced  now,  that  his  choice  from 
every  point  of  view  but  one,  had  been  singularly 
happy;  that  if  she  had  not  been  so  unfortunately  en- 
gaged, she  would  so  admirably  "  have  done." 

His  reflections  found  expression  in  a  simple  and 
sincere  aspiration. 

"  I  hope  he's  a  nice  man,"  he  said. 

She  took  him  completely  into  her  confidence  as  she 
replied,  and  with  an  equally  simple  sincerity,  "  He 


is." 


*  Oh !  well,  let's  have  some  tea,"  Stephen  said  as 


160       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

the  waitress,  at  last,  came  to  clear  the  table  and 
take  their  orders. 

After  that  they  talked  about  Stephen's  affairs. 
She  questioned  him  about  his  occupation  and  ambi- 
tions; and  he  confided  to  her  not  only  the  detail  of 
his  financial  position  and  prospects,  but  also  the 
speculations  and  decisions  that  had  come  to  him  as 
he  viewed  South  London  from  the  heights  of  the 
derrick.  They  exchanged  names  and  addresses  be- 
fore they  parted,  and  she  promised  to  "  look  out  for 
some  one  for  him,  although  just  then  he  was  con- 
vinced, and  shyly  hinted  his  conviction,  that  no  one 
else  would  do.  But  it  so  happened  that  they  never 
met  again. 

The  queerest  thing  about  that  odd  encounter  is 
that  if  she  had  not  been  already  pledged,  she  and 
Stephen  would  probably  have  made  a  perfectly  happy 
marriage.     And  they  both  knew  it. 

The  incident,  however,  barren  as  it  was  from  one 
point  of  view,  was  not  without  its  influence  on 
Stephen's  future,  for  in  a  mood  of  despondency  and 
of  reaction  against  the  whole  female  population  of 
Camberwell,  he  did  not  return  to  his  lodgings  when 
he  knocked  off  work  that  evening;  but  wandered 
vaguely  down  to  the  "  West  End,"  with  the  idea  of 
going  to  a  theater.  And  in  his  mood  of  loneliness 
and  desolation,  he  was  precisely  in  the  right  frame  of 
mind  to  respond  to  the  call  of  a  name  that  he  saw 
displayed  on  the  boards  of  a  theater  in  Shaftesbury 
Avenue. 

If  the  "  Cecilia  Edwardes  m  who  was  so  prom- 
inently advertised  had  indeed  forfeited  her  right  to 
be  worshiped,  she  was,  nevertheless,  still  his  mother. 

He  went  into  the  theater  less  from  curiosity  than 
from  his  imperative  need  for  female  companionship. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       161 


Her  performance  was  a  strange  and  thrilling  ex- 
perience for  him.  From  his  seat  in  the  pit,  he  saw 
her  again  as  a  woman  of  thirty-five,  the  charming, 
adorable,  perplexing  mistress  of  his  early  boyhood. 
The  gay  tones  of  her  voice,  the  pretty  gestures,  the 
fascinating  confiding  smile  were  all  as  he  so  poign- 
antly remembered  them  before  the  awful  time  when 
the  interloper  had  come  to  seduce  her  from  her 
rightful  allegiance.  Just  in  that  manner,  and  with 
just  such  a  whole-hearted  endeavor  to  please,  had 
she  told  him  stories  in  the  old  days.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  even  now  she  was  telling  her  stories  to  him 
alone;  as  if  she  were  aware  of  him  only  in  all  that 
audience,  and  was  trying  to  win  him  back  to  her. 

So  lost  was  he  in  the  rapture  of  this  illusion  that 
he  was  shocked,  when  as  she  paused  to  take  her  laugh 
at  the  end  of  the  story,  a  man  just  behind  him  said 
in  an  audible  tone.  "  She's  clever,  ain't  she?  I've 
'eard  'er  before." 

"  Awfully  clever.  She  talks  right  at  you,  like, 
doesn't  she?"  his  companion  replied.  She  could 
be  generous  without  qualification  in  her  praise  of  so 
mature  a  woman. 

Stephen,  waking  from  his  fond  illusion,  found 
cause  for  another  if  weaker  thrill  of  satisfaction. 
She  was  a  success,  he  reflected.  She  would  be  happy 
to-night.  She  was  always  so  full  of  life  and  happi- 
ness when  she  had  had  a  success.  He  was  glad  for 
her,  and  proud  to  remember  that  she  was  his  mother. 
He  wondered  whether,  if  he  let  his  next  door  neigh- 
bor into  this  immense  confidence,  that  rather  sour- 
looking  individual  would  be  envious  or  merely  skep- 
tical? 

He  found  it  immensely  exciting  to  witness  this  sue- 


162       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

cess  of  his  mother's,  in  the  great  critical  tribunal  of 
a  London  theater.  At  home  they  were  always  pre- 
pared for  her  triumphs;  and  the  audience  was  made 
up  of  those  familiar,  well-disposed  people  who  could 
only  be  expected  to  applaud.  She,  herself,  had  al- 
ways professed  to  despise  those  provincial  successes. 
They  excited  and  pleased  her,  but  she  never  forgot 
that  they  were,  as  she  used  to  say,  "  just  local  ap- 
preciations." 

Did  she,  now,  find  some  cause  for  depreciating  her 
London  successes,  he  wondered? 

He  found  that  he  wanted  to  know  the  answer  to 
that  question,  and  he  felt  that  he,  before  any  one  else 
in  the  world,  had  a  right  to  know. 

Would  she  speak  to  him,  if  he  went  out,  now,  and 
waited  for  her  at  the  stage  door? 

Their  relations  had  undergone  such  a  great  up- 
heaval in  the  past  ten  minutes.  For  seven  years  he 
had  been  the  injured,  in  a  sense,  the  superior  party. 
Now,  he  would  be  afraid  to  speak  to  her.  She  was 
a  star  of  the  London  theaters,  and  he  was  a  builder's 
clerk.     Would  she  be  ashamed  of  him? 

Her  performance  ended  with  enthusiastic  ap- 
plause. Three  times  she  returned  and  bowed  her 
acknowledgments,  but  she  would  not  give  the  encore 
that  was  so  vehemently  demanded.  She  shook  her 
head,  smiled  and  made  towards  the  audience  a  ges- 
ture that  mingled  entreaty  and  denial.  In  imagina- 
tion, Stephen  could  hear  her  voice  saying,  "  My  dear 
little  boy,  it's  time  you  went  to  bed  and  gave  mother 
a  little  peace."  He  had  often  been  puzzled  by  that 
request.  He  could  never  understand  why  she  should 
want  him  to  go  away  when  she  so  evidently  enjoyed 
entertaining  him.  And  he  felt,  now,  that  all  the 
people  in  the  theater  must  be  wondering  how  she 
could  wish  to  break  the  liaison  that  she  had  so  clev- 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        163 

erly  and  delightfully  created  between  her  and  them- 
selves. They  must  all  be  so  sorry  that  she  had  to 
leave  them ;  and  surely  she  must  be  sorry,  too.  Why 
should  she  make  that  gesture  of  entreaty,  as  if  she 
desired  release? 

Stephen  got  up  and  pushed  his  way  out,  when  the 
audience  had  at  last  accepted  his  mother's  refusal  to 
tell  them  even  one  more  story.  He  had  not  been 
able  to  decide  whether  he  dare  wait  for  her  at  the 
stage-door,  but  he  knew  that  he  could  not  remain  any 
longer  in  the  theater.  He  fled  from  the  unendur- 
able prospect  of  watching  the  successful  comedy  that 
was  the  principal  item  of  the  night's  entertainment. 
If  he  could  not  see  his  mother,  he  wanted  to  be  alone 
to  think  about  the  strange  revulsion  of  feeling  in- 
duced by  this  unexpected  sight  of  her.  In  twenty 
minutes  he  had  recovered  all  the  emotions  that  he 
believed  to  have  been  finally  destroyed  when  she  had 
laughed  at  him  in  Dr.  Threlfall's  lodgings.  He  had 
become  a  boy  again;  had  once  more  revived  with  no 
consciousness  of  any  difference,  the  thoughts  and 
emotions,  he  had  so  easily  persuaded  himself  to  be 
forever  dead  and  buried.  It  was  as  if  for  seven 
years  some  part  of  him  had  been  numbed  and  inert, 
making  no  response  when  it  was  called  upon.  He 
was  aware  of  a  sense  of  a  new  sufficiency  and  com- 
pleteness, now  that  he  was  whole  again. 

Nevertheless  he  was  afraid  to  meet  her.  He 
might  have  recovered  what  he  believed  at  the  mo- 
ment to  be  his  old  feeling  for  her,  but  he  had  no 
certainty  that  she  on  her  part  had  retained  her  feel- 
ing for  him.  She  had  always  been  sensitive  to  the 
least  hint  of  criticism,  and  he  had  utterly  condemned 
her  by  his  long  years  of  silence.  In  his  thought  of 
speaking  to  her,  he  saw  himself  as  humbled  and 
supplicant.     He  had  committed  an  unforgivable  of- 


164       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

fense  according  to  the  standards  of  the  old  life. 
And  in  his  present  mood  these  were  the  only  stand- 
ards he  could  recognize. 

He  had  come  to  no  decision  when  he  found  that 
he  had  paused  at  the  stage-door,  with  no  distinct 
remembrance  of  how  he  had  come  there.  By  the 
pavement,  a  neat  electric  brougham  was  waiting.  It 
might  have  just  set  down  the  young  actress  who  had 
recently  achieved  celebrity  in  the  comedy  Stephen  had 
refused  to  watch.  But  he  instantly  assumed  that  the 
brougham  was  waiting  for  his  mother;  and  the  in- 
ference still  further  intimidated  him.  He  remem- 
bered that  he  had  come  on  from  the  works  in  the 
rather  shabby  tweed  suit  he  always  wore  there,  that 
he  had  not  put  on  a  clean  collar  that  morning,  that 
his  hands  were  rather  dirty.  He  was  on  the  point 
of  turning  away,  resolved  both  to  think  everything 
over  because  he  dared  this  experiment,  and  also,  if 
he  came  again  to  appear  more  suitably  dressed  for 
the  occasion,  when  two  young  girls  passed  him  com- 
ing up  the  side  street  from  Shaftesbury  Avenue. 
One  of  them  went  straight  into  the  theater  by  the 
stage-door,  but  the  other  faced  round  on  the  thresh- 
old and  looked  earnestly  at  Stephen.  For  one 
instant  a  nervous,  uncertain  smile  flickered  across 
her  face,  and  then  with  an  exquisitely  familiar  little 
twirl  of  her  skirts,  she  followed  her  companion. 

Stephen  stared  after  her  with  a  sense  of  infinite 
bewilderment.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  by  some  as- 
tounding miracle  his  life  had,  indeed,  been  set  back 
for  seven  years;  and  that  having  begun  in  new  sur- 
roundings, he  was  being  confronted  with  another 
grouping  of  the  two  essential  influences  which  had 
determined  his  fate  and  then  deserted  him. 

He  had  forgotten  his  immediate  errand,  he  was 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        165 

still  vaguely  attempting  to  understand  the  sense  of 
an  enthralling  unreality  that  was  intoxicating  him, 
when  Cecilia  came  out  of  the  theater. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  quick  glance  of  sus- 
picion, and  then  all  the  expression  died  out  of  her 
face. 

14  Stephen?  "  she  said  in  the  still,  reserved  voice  of 
one  who  is  uncertain  how  her  overtures  may  be  re- 
ceived. 

But  he  could  not  at  once  throw  off  that  strange  and 
delightful  sense  of  moving  in  a  dream  world.  He 
felt  as  if  he  must  await  the  issue  of  events,  that  if  he 
attempted  to  influence  them  he  must  inevitably  awake 
to  the  gray,  unexciting  routine  of  his  common  life. 
For  a  moment  at  least  he  had  stepped  out  of  the 
hard  world  of  reality  into  a  wonderland  of  romance, 
and  although  he  knew  that  the  magic  bubble  already 
shivered  on  the  verge  of  dissipation,  he  wanted  to 
hold  the  illusion  instant  by  instant  as  it  slipped  away 
from  him. 

"  Were  you  waiting  for  me?  "  she  asked,  still  in 
the  hard  formal  voice  which  shrouded  her  emotion ! 
For  all  she  knew,  he  might  have  come,  at  last,  to 
reproach  her  sin. 

"  Yes  —  I  was  waiting  for  you,"  Stephen  said. 
"  I  —  I  have  just  come  out  of  the  theater.  I've 
been  —  in  there."  His  enveloping  bubble  of  ro- 
mance had  burst  and  left  him  open  to  contempt.  He 
was  no  longer  hidden  by  a  magical  whirl  of  irides- 
cence, but  exposed,  suddenly  gauche  and  shabby,  to 
the  criticism  of  one  who  appeared  to  him  in  her 
present  attitude,  as  a  hard  and  worldly  woman, —  a 
woman  who  would  be  ashamed  of  his  appearance  and 
manners. 

Cecilia    made    a    little    gesture    of    impatience. 


166       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"Why?"  she  asked,  much  as  she  might  have  re- 
proved him  in  his  boyhood  for  bothering  her  when 
she  was  practicing. 

"  I'm  sorry,  mother,"  Stephen  said,  re-acting  sim- 
ply to  the  old  stimulus.  "  I  didn't  know  whether 
you'd  mind  if  —  if  I  just  spoke  to  you." 

She  looked  about  as  if  searching  for  some  place 
in  which  he  might  speak  to  her ;  her  glance  alternately 
dwelling  upon  and  rejecting  the  brougham  as  though 
the  use  of  it  as  a  meeting  place  offered  some  compli- 
cated and  puzzling  disadvantage. 

"  I  wish  you'd  shave,"  she  remarked  unexpectedly. 

His  hand  went  to  his  chin.  In  his  reflections  upon 
his  own  appearance,  he  had  omitted  that  consider- 
ation. He  only  shaved  three  or  four  times  a  week, 
and  the  day  before  had  been  a  Sunday. 

"Whatever  made  you  grow  that  mustache?" 
she  went  on  petulantly.  "  You  used  to  have  such  a 
nice  mouth." 

11  I  don't  know,"  he  said  weakly.     "  It  came." 

11  Well,  I  suppose  we'd  better  go  in  the 
brougham,"  she  decided;  "but  I  simply  can't  ask 
you  in  when  we  get  home.  We've  a  heap  of  people 
coming  at  ten  o'clock,  and  you're  hardly  dressed  for 
a  reception,  are  you?  " 

"  Perhaps,  I'd  better  come  another  time,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  she  said.  "  But  I  wanted  to 
hear.  .  .  ."  She  stopped  and  regarded  the  figure 
of  the  chauffeur  who  for  the  last  five  minutes  had 
been  standing  patiently  by  the  door  of  the  motor. 
"  Let's  get  in,"  she  said,  and  crossed  the  pavement 
to  the  invitation  of  the  responsively  opening  door. 

"  Come  in  and  sit  down,"  she  said  to  Stephen 
when  she  had  seated  herself,  and  added  to  the 
chauffeur,  "  Find  some  quiet  place,  Adcock,  Groe- 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        167 

venor  Square  or  something,  and  then  drive  slowly 
round.     I  want  to  talk." 

Adcock  touched  his  cap. 

u  Wait  until  we  get  out  of  the  noise,"  she  said,  as 
soon  as  they  had  started.     "  I  want  to  think." 

What  her  thoughts  must  have  been  might  safely 
have  been  inferred  from  her  speech  when  the  sug- 
gestible Adcock  having  brought  them  to  the  silences 
of  Grosvenor  Square,  proceeded  to  tour  it  with  the 
solemn  regularity  of  a  circus  elephant.  But,  at  the 
time,  Stephen's  own  deductions  were  something  wide 
of  the  truth.  He  had,  for  that  evening,  returned 
into  the  past,  and  he  could  not  make  sufficient  al- 
lowance for  the  fact  that  his  mother  had  had  seven 
years  of  independence  and  new  experience. 

11 1  know  what  you're  doing,  of  course,"  she  be- 
gan. "  You're  with  James  Dickinson  —  it  was 
always  your  ambition,  wasn't  it?  —  and  you're  clerk 
of  the  works  or  something  on  a  new  building  on  the 
Embankment." 

u  How  did  you  know?  "  Stephen  asked.  He  was 
hurt  by  what  he  judged  to  be  the  sneer  in  her 
reference  to  his  "  ambition  "  !  Only  an  hour  before, 
he  had  been  proud  of  his  success. 

"  I  see  the  Medboro'  paper,  sometimes,"  she  ex- 
plained, and  added  quickly,  prompted  perhaps  by 
some  association  of  ideas,  "  You  know  Christopher 
and  I  are  married,  of  course?  We've  been  married 
for  nearly  five  years,  now." 

"  No,  I  didn't  know,"  Stephen  said. 

"  You  didn't  take  even  enough  interest  in  me  for 
that,"  she  commented.  "  Well,  I  didn't  expect  it. 
Why  should  you?  What  I  want  to  know  is  why 
you  came  to  the  theater  this  evening?  " 

Stephen  sighed  as  he  contemplated  the  impossi- 
bility of  making  an  explanation  that  involved  his 


168       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

thoughts  on  the  derrick,  and  his  tantalizing,  abortive 
designs  on  the  person  of  the  young  woman  with 
whom  he  had  had  tea  that  afternoon.  He  blushed, 
now,  to  remember  that  almost  his  first  words  to  her 
had  been,  in  effect,  a  proposal  of  marriage.  He 
dared  not,  he  thought,  ever  confess  that  amazing 
and  imprudent  indiscretion  to  his  mother. 

"  I  saw  your  name  on  the  boards  outside,"  he 
said. 

u  And  came  in  out  of  curiosity?"  Cecilia  con- 
cluded. 

14  It  wasn't  curiosity,"  he  affirmed  steadily. 

"What  then?"  she  asked.  "I  want  to  know 
why  you  came,"  she  went  on  before  he  could  answer. 
"  It's  important  —  to  me;  and  why  having  seen  my 
performance, —  to  an  empty  house, —  you  came 
round  to  the  stage-door.  Do  try  to  be  as  clear  as 
you  can.     It  —  it  involves  so  many  things." 

"  I  was  lonely,"  Stephen  said,  plunging  after  es- 
sentials. "  I  went  in  because  it  seemed  as  if  in  a 
sort  of  way,  you  belonged  to  me ;  and  then  seeing  you 
reminded  me  so  frightfully  of  —  of  old  times  — 
before  you  went  away.  I  thought  perhaps  you 
wouldn't  want  to  see  me.  I'd  come  straight  up 
from  the  works  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I'd  just 
decided  to  go  away  again,  when  you  came  out." 

She  turned  towards  him  in  the  gloom  of  the  motor, 
and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Lonely?  "  she  repeated  as  if  he  had  made  no 
other  statement.     "  Why  should  you  be  lonely?" 

"  I  am,"  he  said  simply.  u  There's  no  one  in 
London  who  —  who  belongs  to  me." 

She  did  not  appear  to  resent  the  suggestion  of 
11  belonging  "  that  had  twice  surged  up  to  express 
the  hidden  depths  of  his  desire. 

"Aren't  you  engaged  or  anything?"  she  asked 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       169 

and  continued  at  once  with  the  first  sign  she  had 
given  of  her  old  habit  of  teasing  him.  "  Such  a 
handsome,  successful  young  man  as  you  are,  must 
surely  be  besieged  by  women." 

"  Not  by  the  kind  I  want,"  he  replied. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  there's  never  been  even 
one?  "  she  pressed  him. 

His  thought  flitted  for  an  instant  over  the  images 
of  Bessie  Ward,  his  cousin  Phyllis  Bell,  and  the 
steady,  blue  eyes  of  the  young  woman  in  the  tea- 
shop,  before  he  replied  with  conviction,  u  Not  a 
single  one."  He  could  not  have  borne  to  include, 
even  in  thought,  the  figure  of  the  girl  who  had  so 
nearly  smiled  at  him  as  he  waited  by  the  stage-door. 
He  was  prepared  to  be  violently  angry  with  himself, 
for  daring  to  think  of  her  in  connection  with  any 
other  woman  he  had  known.  Also,  he  had  an 
instinctive  fear  of  making  any  reference  to  Margaret 
Weatherley  in  his  mother's  hearing. 

Cecilia  did  not  reply  at  once,  but  she  kept  her 
hand  on  his  arm. 

"  And  so  you  were  prepared  to  overlook  the 
past  for  the  sake  of  —  what  was  it  —  my  compan- 
ionship?" she  asked,  after  that  brief  interval  of 
silence. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Stephen  said.     "  I  just  felt  that 

I  wanted  to  see  you  again.  When  you  told  your 
stories  in  the  theater,  it  made  me  think  of  —  of  you 
and  me  at  home." 

She  caught  her  breath  with  a  little  gasp,  but  her 
voice  was  perfectly  even  and  steady  as  she  replied, 

II  Where  are  you  living?  " 

"  Camberwell,"  he  told  her. 

"  In  rooms,  lodgings?  " 

"  One  room.     I'm  not  there  much." 

11  What  salary  are  you  getting?  " 


170       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

u  Three  hundred  a  year,"  he  said  with  the  faint 
ring  of  a  boast  in  his  voice. 

I  suppose  that's  pretty  good,  considering?  "  she 
remarked. 

II  Yes,  I  think  it  is,"  Stephen  said  and  added, 
M  Mr.  Dickinson  has  been  awfully  kind.  There's 
to  be  some  sort  of  new  arrangement  when  this  job's 
done." 

"  We  used  all  of  us  to  live  on  less  than  three 
hundred  a  year  in  Long  Causeway,"  she  commented 
thoughtfully.  "  But  that's  a  million  years  ago. 
I've  forgotten  so  many  things.  What  are  Emily 
and  Hilda  doing?  " 

"  Hilda  has  married  Cummin,  the  chemist  in 
Prestgate,"  he  said.  "  Emily  is  still  at  the  Council 
School  —  doing  fairly  well.  She's  rather  taken  up 
with  this  Votes  for  Women  affair,  lately,  though." 

Cecilia  sighed  as  if  the  thought  of  her  daughters 
brought  her  little  happiness. 

"They  were  bitter  against  me,  of  course?"  she 
said. 

"  They  were,  rather,"  Stephen  admitted. 

"And  weren't  you?"  she  asked. 

"  Not  in  the  same  way,"  he  said. 

14  But  in  your  own  way,  you  were?  " 

II I  dunno'  about  bitter,"  he  remonstrated. 

"  Stephen,  you  don't  speak  as  nicely  as  you  used 
to,"  she  said  sharply.  H  Is  it  the  works?  Or 
haven't  you  been  taking  trouble  lately?  " 

"  A  bit  of  both,  I  expect,"  he  said. 

"  You'll  have  to  give  up  those  Camberwell  lodg- 
ings and  come  and  live  near  us  in  Bloomsbury,"  she 
said,  as  if  it  had  already  been  arranged  that  he  was 
to  be  taken  back  into  favor.  u  We've  got  a  house 
in  Bedford  Square,  and  I  think  I  could  find  you 
rooms  in  Gower  Street.     What  do  you  mean  by 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        171 

saying  that  you're  not  at  home  much?  What  do 
you  do?  " 

"  Well,  week  days  I'm  at  the  works  all  the  time," 
he  explained.  "  I  get  there  at  eight  in  the  morning 
and  I'm  often  there  till  eight  at  night." 

"  Oh !  my  dear,"  she  exclaimed.  "  Why  it's 
worse  than  the  shop.  We  must  talk  about  all  that, 
but  not  now;  I  ought  to  have  been  home  before  this. 
When  will  you  come?  To-morrow  evening?  I 
shall  be  in  by  nine." 

"  I'd  have  time  to  get  back  to  Camberwell  and 
change  by  then,"  he  commented. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do,  now?"  she 
asked. 

"Oh!  I'll  get  out  here  and  go  home,"  he 
said. 

Cecilia  accepted  that  proposal  without  demur. 
She  gave  her  instruction  to  Adcock  through  the 
speaking  tube  and  the  hushed  thudding  of  the 
solemn  tour  about  Grosvenor  Square  abruptly 
ceased. 

Stephen  got  out  and  stood  by  the  door.  "  What's 
your  number  in  Bedford  Square?  "  he  asked. 

"  Sixty-four,"  his  mother  said.  "  Tell  him 
'home,'  will  you?  And,  Stephen, —  you're  sure 
you  want  to  come?  "  She  laughed  with  a  touch  of 
bitterness  as  she  added,  "  You'll  condescend  to  know 
us  again?  " 

"  It  isn't  that,"  he  mumbled.  "  Of  course,  I  want 
to  come." 

She  had  her  hands  on  the  door  and,  leaned  a  little 
forward  through  the  open  window  of  the  brougham, 
as  she  said,  "  I  should  ask  you  to  kiss  me,  if  you 
weren't  so  dirty.  Do  shave  off  that  ugly  mus- 
tache before  I  see  you  again." 


172        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 


Stephen  walked  home  to  Camberwell  by  way  of 
Westminster  Bridge.  After  the  stimulating  excite- 
ments of  that  emotional  day,  his  thoughts  ran  hard 
and  bright,  with  an  effect  of  illuminating  certainty. 
He  saw  himself  clearly  in  relation  to  a  world  that 
had,  almost  alarmingly,  enlarged  its  boundaries. 
Until  this  evening,  he  had  been  content  to  relate  his 
life  and  ambitions  to  the  contacts  of  his  immediate 
circumstances.  He  had  seen  himself  prospering  on 
precisely  the  same  lines  that  James  Dickinson  had 
prospered.  He  had  taken  Medborough  as  his 
standard  and  judged  his  own  success  accordingly. 
And  by  that  criterion  he  had  quite  wonderfully  suc- 
ceeded. Now,  he  was  confronted  with  the  humili- 
ating inference  that  he  was  not  fit  to  meet  his 
mother's  friends.  She  had  made  him  realize  that  he 
was  common  and  provincial  —  even  his  boyish  judg- 
ment of  her  had  been  provincial.  He  was  careless 
in  his  speech,  ill-dressed  and  dirty.  Presently  she 
would  add  to  her  indictment  that  he  was  ignorant 
and  mannerless.  He  knew  nothing  of  music  and 
the  stage  and  very  little  about  books.  He  would 
be  woefully  out  of  his  element  at  a  dinner-party. 
(He  stopped  under  an  arch-lamp  in  Whitehall  at  the 
point  of  his  reflection  to  look  at  his  hands.  They 
were  well-shaped,  his  nails  although  not  over-clean 
were  otherwise  presentable;  but  his  skin  was  rough- 
ened and  reddened  by  his  work.  He  plunged  them 
back  into  his  pockets,  with  a  wry  face  at  the  picture 
of  those  hands  at  his  mother's  dinner-table.)  No; 
he  could  not  escape  the  conclusion  that  his  mother's 
criticism  of  him  was  more  than  justified. 

Yet,  he  did  not  resent  it.  He  felt  no  inclination 
to  justify  himself.     His  justification  was  too  obvious. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        173 

He  had  worked  his  way  up  to  a  certain  point. 
What  he  had  to  consider  was  not  whether  he  had 
done  well  enough,  so  far,  but  whether  he  was  pre- 
pared to  do  much  better. 

He  could  not  change  his  work;  he  had  no  wish  to 
do  that.  He  had  confidence  in  his  own  ability  to 
succeed  in  the  career  he  had  chosen,  and  his  way 
was  quite  clear  in  front  of  him.  He  had  already 
won  the  good  opinion  of  Mr.  Bradley,  the  architect, 
who  was  a  hard  man  and  difficult  to  please,  but  who 
gave  credit  when  it  was  due.  Also,  Stephen  had 
lately  thought  out  a  very  useful  improvement  in  the 
section  of  cast-iron  casements,  an  improvement  that 
would,  he  believed,  solve  the  perpetual  difficulty  of 
keeping  out  the  wet;  and  might  be  adapted  to 
wooden  sashes  and  casements  and  to  skylights.  He 
had  made  his  search  in  the  patent  office  and  meant  to 
send  in  his  drawings  and  specification  to  obtain  pro- 
visional protection  in  the  course  of  a  week  or  two. 
There  would  not  probably  be  much  money  in  it,  but 
he  would  gain  a  certain  amount  of  prestige  from  his 
invention. 

But,  having  decided  that  he  had  no  intention  of 
changing  his  profession,  he  must  consider  what  he 
must  do  in  order  to  fit  himself  for  the  society  of  his 
mother  and  her  friends.  So  far  as  he  could  foresee, 
all  that  was  necessary  was  to  take  pains  with  his 
speech,  his  manners  and  his  dress.  No  doubt,  he 
would  be  out  of  it  at  first  in  conversation,  but  he 
would  soon  learn.  In  seven  years  he  had  learnt  his 
own  difficult  and  complicated  trade  well  enough  to 
receive  the  approval  of  two  such  experts  as  Mr. 
Bradley  and  Mr.  Dickinson.  In  six  months,  he 
would  know  enough  of  this  new  enterprise,  to  pass 
without  comment  in  society.  He  was  not  shy  with 
men,  and  he  did  not  believe  that  he  would  be  shy 


i74       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

with  women.  Had  he  not  proposed  to  one  before 
he  had  known  her  two  minutes? 

That  thought,  however,  gave  a  sudden  twist  to 
his  reflections.  He  was  ashamed,  now,  of  that  epi- 
sode of  the  afternoon.  His  mother,  of  course, 
would  have  disapproved,  but  that  did  not  count. 
It  was  only  one  more  piece  of  evidence  to  back  the 
indictment  that  he  was  perfectly  willing  to  admit. 
Until  this  evening,  he  had  never  professed  to  be 
anything  more  than  an  ordinary  builder's  clerk,  in 
his  way  of  life.  Now,  he  was  ashamed  of  his  pre- 
cocious approach  to  a  strange  woman,  for  another 
and  far  more  serious  reason.  He  had  been  untrue 
to  his  own  ideals  of  love.  He  had,  indeed,  forgot- 
ten that  he  had  ever  had  an  ideal.  The  seed  of  it 
had  been  sown  in  his  boyhood  and  lain  neglected  and 
unrecognized.  Now,  at  one  glimpse  of  a  remem- 
bered face  and  gesture,  the  seed  had  miraculously 
flowered. 

The  approach  to  that  thought  set  him  trembling. 
He  knew  and  yet  dared  not  admit  to  himself  that  she 
no  less  than  his  mother  was  the  influence  who  had 
turned  his  ambition  towards  the  goal  of  "  becoming 
a  gentleman  " —  he  neither  knew  nor  sought  for, 
any  other  phrase  for  it.  So  far  as  he  could  under- 
stand his  own  aspirations,  he  wanted  to  approach 
her  through  his  mother.  If  "  approach  "  was  not 
an  altogether  too  vainglorious  word  in  this  connec- 
tion. Strangely  enough,  he  could  not  think  of  her, 
without  becoming  angry  with  himself.  He  was 
furiously  annoyed  when  he  remembered  that  on  this 
second  occasion,  as  on  the  first,  he  had  stood  gauche, 
awkward  and  solemn  when  she  had  hailed  him.  He 
was  not  less  annoyed  with  himself  for  daring  to 
think  that  he  might  have  done  anything  else. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        175 

He  dug  his  hands  a  trifle  deeper  into  his  pockets 
and  quickened  his  pace. 

At  the  corner  of  the  Grove  he  collided  with  a 
workman  coming  from  the  opposite  direction. 

"  Nah  then,  clumsy/'  the  workman  said,  address- 
ing Stephen  as  an  equal. 

Stephen  drew  himself  up  and  checked  his  impulse 
to  reply  in  the  vernacular.  M  I'm  sorry,"  he  said. 
"  I'm  afraid  I  wasn't  looking  where  I  was  going." 

"  No  'arm  done,  sir,"  the  workman  replied  in  a 
conciliated  and  respectful  tone,  as  he  passed  on  into 
the  night. 

Stephen  continued  his  walk  with  the  feeling  that 
he  had  made  a  further  step  towards  raising  himself. 
He  realized  without  vanity  that  he  had  the  essence 
of  the  thing  in  him.  He  had  let  that  side  of  his 
life  slide  during  the  past  few  years,  but  only  be- 
cause he  had  been  so  intent  on  his  work.  He  would 
have  no  difficulty  in  recovering  his  accent.  He  could 
do  it  at  any  time  by  an  effort  of  attention,  but  he 
had  to  cultivate  that  way  of  speaking  until  it  became 
second  nature,  until  he  could  speak  like  Christopher 
Threlfall  or  the  Bishop's  wife.  And  he  must  get 
his  hands  into  condition  again,  and  learn  how  he 
ought  to  dress  and  behave.  His  mother  would  teach 
him.  She  had  probably  learnt  many  things  herself 
in  the  course  of  the  last  seven  years. 

And  the  object  of  all  these  determinations,  so 
he  explicitly  told  himself,  was  that  he  should  never 
again  give  his  mother  cause  to  be  ashamed  of  him. 
He  was  proud  to  have  recovered  her.  He  believed 
that  presently  he  and  she  would  resume  their  old 
relations.  He  knew  how  that  end  was  to  be  accom- 
plished, and  he  was  quite  prepared  to  be  her  dili- 
gent and  acquiescent  pupil. 


176       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 


He  made  a  good  beginning  early  next  morning,  by 
shaving  off  his  mustache.  Contemplating  the  ef- 
fect, he  decided  that  his  mother  had  been  right.  He 
looked,  perhaps,  rather  younger  without  it;  but  he 
had,  as  she  had  said,  quite  a  nice  mouth  and  his 
mustache  had  given  just  a  touch  of  "  commonness  " 
to  his  appearance. 

His  next  act  of  discipline  involved  a  greater  effort. 
He  noted  the  foreman's  look  of  surprise  when  he 
was  addressed  in  Stephen's  "  society  "  voice.  They 
would  all  say,  of  course,  that  he  was  "  putting  on 
airs,  getting  a  bit  above  himself."  Well,  that 
couldn't  be  helped.  His  mistake  had  lain  in  not 
having  adopted  that  voice  from  the  first.  However, 
they  would  soon  get  used  to  it,  and  cease  to  wink 
at  each  other  behind  his  back.  He  hoped  that  his 
new  accent  would  not  spoil  his  friendly  relations 
with  the  foreman.  It  was  essential  that  they  should 
all  work  together. 

He  was  not  guilty  of  more  than  half-a-dozen 
lapses  in  the  course  of  the  day,  but  the  last  of  them 
was  serious.  He  swore  with  a  "  b  "  instead  of  a 
11  d,"  and  he  noted  the  faint  smile  of  relief  on  the 
face  of  Bennett  the  works  foreman  as  he  did  it. 
They  were  in  the  office  just  cleaning  up  for  the  day 
and  Stephen  decided  to  attempt  some  kind  of  expla- 
nation. It  would  never  do  for  him  to  lose  the  re- 
spect of  Bennett. 

11  Think  I've  been  putting  on  airs,  to-day,  Ben- 
nett? "  he  asked. 

Bennett  took  off  his  cap  and  scratched  his  head. 
"  Well,  a  bit  on  the  'igh  'orse,  so  to  speak,  Mr. 
Kirkwood,"  he  said.  I  was  afraid  Vmorning 
somethin'  'ad  upset  you." 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        177 

Stephen  found  that  his  explanation  was  going  to 
be  uncommonly  difficult.  "  You  see  I've  got  to  edu- 
cate myself,"  he  tried. 

"Ah!"  commented  Bennett  with  an  air  of  un- 
derstanding and  then  as  Stephen  remained  silent,  he 
continued,  u  We  know,  o'  course,  as  you'll  be  the  boss 
one  o'  these  days,  Mr.  Kirkwood,  but  it  don't  do 
any  'arm  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  your  men. 
You  can  talk  'ow  you  like  so  far's  I'm  concerned,  but 
I  wouldn't  give  the  men  the  chance  to  say  as  you're 
getting  too  big  for  your  boots.  You're  well-liked  in 
a  manner  of  speakin',  but  they  won't  stand  no  'igh- 
falutin.  They  don't  get  it  from  Mr.  Dickinson  and 
they  won't  expect  it  from  you." 

Stephen  pondered  that  statement  as  he  hurried 
back  to  Camberwell  to  change  his  clothes.  Bennett 
was  unquestionably  right,  and  Stephen  had  to  face 
the  problem  of  whether  he  would  be  able  to  swear 
with  a  "  b  "  and  use  the  vernacular  in  working  hours, 
and  yet  be  able  to  assume  his  cultured  accent  at  all 
other  times  without  producing  any  effect  of  effort. 
Nothing  but  practical  experience  could  settle  that 
question,  he  thought. 

He  was  not  unduly  nervous  as  he  rang  the  bell  of 
the  big  house  in  Bedford  Square.  Although  his 
temperament  was  shot  with  a  vivid  thread  of  artistic 
sensibility  inherited  from  Cecilia,  its  influence  upon 
his  general  character  was  manifested  in  a  quickening 
of  his  perceptions,  rather  than  in  a  nervous  excita- 
bility. Moreover,  as  he  waited  for  an  answer  to  his 
ring  he  was  thinking  more  of  his  mother  than  of 
himself.  He  had  not  as  yet  had  a  clear  sight  of  her, 
but  his  impression  had  been  that  she  had  grown 
younger  with  the  years. 

Some  intimation  of  the  difficulties  of  the  new  way 
of  life,  dawned  upon  him  when  the  door  was  opened 


178        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

by  a  gentlemanly  looking  individual  in  a  dark  morn- 
ing coat  and  a  black  tie.  Stephen's  first  idea  was 
that  the  man  was  a  clergyman,  his  second  that  he 
was  a  visitor  in  the  house  who  happened  to  be  in  the 
hall  when  the  bell  rang. 

"Oh!  I  say,"  Stephen  said  apologetically,  "  do 
you  happen  to  know  if  my  —  if  Mrs.  Threlfall 
is  in?" 

"  Mrs.  Threlfall  is  at  home,  sir,"  the  man  re- 
plied, and  stood  aside  for  Stephen  to  enter. 

u  My  name's  Kirkwood,"  Stephen  explained,  as 
the  door  was  delicately  closed  behind  him.  He  was 
still  puzzled. 

"  Mrs.  Threlfall  is  expectin'  you,  sir.  This  way, 
please,"  the  man  said,  and  after  tactfully  relieving 
Stephen  of  his  deer-stalker,  he  gravely  preceded  him 
upstairs. 

Stephen  followed,  slightly  abashed.  He  realized 
his  mistake,  now,  and  hoped  that  his  mother  would 
not  hear  about  it.  His  embarrassment  was  not  re- 
lieved when  the  door  of  the  first  floor  drawing-room 
was  thrown  open  and  his  name  impressively  and 
clearly  announced.  He  had  a  momentary  fear  that 
he  was  being  shown  into  a  room  full  of  people. 

^  And  the  room  itself  intimidated  him.  It  had  an 
air  of  spaciousness,  of  refinement,  of  delicacy  that 
was  entirely  new  in  his  experience.  The  best  in  this 
kind  that  was  as  yet  known  to  him  was  Mr.  Dick- 
inson's house  in  the  Lincoln  Road  and  that,  by  com- 
parison, had  a  solid,  almost  coarse  masculinity.  It 
had  appealed  to  Stephen  as  luxurious,  but  he  had  not 
been  afraid  of  it  as  he  was  of  this  feminine,  artistic 
place.  The  cream  walls,  the  bright  chintzes,  the 
pale  rose  carpet  made  him  feel  suddenly  gross  and 
awkward;  as  if  by  his  mere  presence  he  must  fatally 
soil  so  elegant  a  place. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        179 

Cecilia  was  alone,  reading  by  the  light  of  a  rose- 
shaded  lamp.  She  jumped  up  as  he  came  in,  and 
after  a  just  perceptible  hesitation,  said,  "  You  can 
put  on  the  light,  Butler." 

There  was  a  sound  of  brisk  clicking  by  the  door 
and  the  room  instantly  leapt  into  full  being,  chang- 
ing its  air  of  mysterious  and  sensitive  delicacy 
for  a  bright  and  challenging  design  of  outline  and 
colour. 

"  Well,  so  youVe  found  your  way,  Stephen," 
Cecilia  said  nervously  as  the  door  was  closed  with 
a  soft  determination,  behind  the  retreating  form  of 
Butler.  She  was  in  evening  dress  and  her  beautiful 
shoulders  and  arms  seemed  to  take  up  and  enhance 
the  brilliance  of  her  surroundings.  She  was  inevi- 
tably posed  as  the  essential  jewel  for  which  all  else 
was  only  an  effective  setting. 

14  Oh !  yes;  no  difficulty  about  finding  it,"  Stephen 
replied,  coming  forward  to  greet  her  with  a  kind  of 
anxious  discretion.  All  the  courage  had  ebbed  out 
of  him.  He  knew  for  the  first  time  what  his 
mother  had  meant  when  in  the  old  days  she  had 
talked  of  stage  fright.  He  had  a  sense  of  being  so 
completely  displayed.  He  was  conscious  that  his 
every  movement,  his  every  tone,  every  detail  of  his 
appearance  were  quite  unfairly  conspicuous. 

She  held  out  her  little  white  plump  hand  to  him 
and  then  lifted  her  face  to  be  kissed.  Stephen  per- 
formed his  part  of  the  ceremony  as  if  she  were  a 
creature  of  infinite  fragility. 

"  Well !  "  she  said,  and  laughed  nervously. 
11  Your  greeting  is  hardly  cordial,  little  son,"  she 
went  on  quickly.  "  Or  do  you  find  me  rather  terri- 
fying? Sit  down  for  goodness'  sake  and  smoke, — 
if  you  do  smoke?  —  and  then  tell  me  all  about  your- 
self.    Am  I  much  altered,  do  you  think,  or  would 


180       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

you  have  recognized  me  ?  I'm  forty-eight,  Stephen. 
It's  no  good  trying  to  hide  the  truth  from  you,  is 
it?     Quite  an  old  woman." 

She  had  sat  down  again  while  she  was  speaking, 
and  as  Stephen  rather  gingerly  bent  himself  into  a 
low  chintz-covered  arm-chair  near  her,  she  pushed 
a  silver  cigarette  box  towards  him. 

"  Smoke  while  you're  thinking  what  to  say,"  she 
said.     "  It  saves  time." 

The  quotation  quickened  Stephen  to  a  realization 
that  he  was  failing  most  signally  in  his  first  attempt 
to  play  the  game  of  going  into  society.  He  accepted 
the  cigarette  that  was  offered  to  him,  though  it 
seemed  little  short  of  sacrilege  to  smoke  in  that 
room,  and  attempted  a  rally  by  saying, 

"  You  might  have  told  me  always  to  say  c  your 
Majesty,'  too,  mother."  And  he  pointed  his  re- 
mark by  a  glance  round  the  room. 

She  nodded  approvingly.  "  I'm  glad  you  haven't 
forgotten,"  she  said.  Does  it  all  strike  you  as  — 
opulent,  Stephen?  " 

"  It  terrifies  me,"  he  replied,  feeling  his  way 
towards  a  sense  of  being  at  ease  in  those  sur- 
roundings. 

"  It  mustn't,"  she  said.  "  It  won't  in  a  day  or 
two,  when  you're  dressed  to  fit  it.  Are  those  your 
1  best  things  ' ?  Medboro',  aren't  they?  You  must 
go  to  Christopher's  tajlor.  I'll  treat  you  to  a  com- 
plete outfit." 

14  Oh!     I'm  not  so  very  hard  up,"  he  protested. 

She  waved  that  aside  with  the  old  familiar  ges- 
ture, "  '  This  is  my  son  who  was  dead  and  is  alive 
again,'  "  she  said,  "  and  if  he  wants  to  please  me, 
he  must  do  what  I  tell  him.  We've  lots  of  money, 
Stephen;  and  we're  not  a  bit  extravagant,  consider- 
ing.    You   must  humor   me   by  letting  me   spend 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        181 

something  on  you.  And  you  haven't  told  me  yet 
whether  you  think  I've  altered." 

"  Yes,  you  have,"  he  said  seriously.  "  You  look 
so  much  younger." 

"  Even  in  this  light?  "  she  asked.  "  I  had  it  put 
on,  on  purpose." 

She  leaned  forward,  presenting  herself  for  in- 
spection and  Stephen  realized  for  the  first  time  that 
her  face  was  very  perfectly  "  made  up."  She  in- 
stantly noted  the  slight  change  in  his  expression 
consequent  on  that  discovery,  and  threw  herself  back 
in  her  chair. 

"  Well,  of  course,  my  dear  little  boy!  "  she  said; 
"And  I  meant  you  to  know  it;  because  I  have  a 
plan  to  show  you  one  day  just  what  your  mother 
really  looks  like,  now  - —  creased  and  lined  and 
withered  and  old,  so  dreadfully  old.  That  shall 
be  our  secret,  but  I  mean  to  keep  a  brave  face  to 
the  world  for  years  yet.  Also  Stephen,  there's  an- 
other secret  we  shall  have  to  keep  before  the  world 
outside  the  family,  and  that  is  our  relation  to  one 
another.  I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  do  for  me  to  have 
such  a  very  grown-up  son  falling  out  of  the  sky. 
Would  you  mind  much  being  a  nephew?  Do  you 
think  you  could  manage  to  think  of  me  as  an  aunt 
when  there  are  people  about?  " 

Stephen  was  a  trifle  shocked.  The  provincial  in 
him  not  less  than  the  sturdy  workman  shrank  from 
this  world  of  chicanery  and  intrigue,  in  which  women 
of  nearly  fifty  achieved  an  effect  of  thirty-five,  and 
disguised  their  relation  to  their  own  children.  At 
the  same  time,  he  was  slightly  excited  by  the  novelty 
of  the  excursion,  and  if  only  it  had  not  been  his 
mother  who  figured  as  the  representative  of  the  the- 
atrical method,  he  would  probably  have  entered  into 
this  new  life  with  the  usual  gusto  of  the  neophyte. 


182        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"  Of  course;  if  you  like,"  he  said.  "  I'll  try  to 
remember  when  there's  anybody  else  about.  I  — 
I  rather  wish  it  wasn't  necessary." 

"You  see,  Stephen,"  she  explained;  "  I'm  trying 
to  get  on  the  stage  —  properly.  I  don't  call  that 
performance  of  mine  you  saw  last  night,  going  on 
the  stage.  Telling  stories  to  the  pit  and  gallery, 
with  people  dropping  into  the  stalls  and  the  dress- 
circle  as  if  you  weren't  there,  is  perfectly  horrid. 
I  loathe  it,  and  Christopher  did  all  he  could  to  dis- 
suade me  from  starting  it  again.  I  dropped  it  more 
than  five  years  ago,  after  Christopher  began  to  make 
such  a  lot  of  money  with  his  music,  and  I  shouldn't 
have  taken  it  up  again  if  I  hadn't  wanted  to  get  a 
part  in  comedy.  It  does  give  managers  some  kind 
of  chance  to  see  you.  .  .  ." 

She  was  going  on  with  the  account  of  her  ambi- 
tions and  prospects,  but  Stephen  could  not  wait  any 
longer  to  put  the  question  that  was  troubling  him. 

But  why  do  you  want  to  go  on  the  stage?  "  he 
asked  bluntly.  "If  you've  got  all  the  money  you 
want,  I  mean,  and  so  on?  " 

"  Oh !  my  dear  little  boy,"  Cecilia  threw  at  him, 
contemptuously;  "  are  you  still  living  in  the  19th 
century?  Why  does  Emily  want  to  vote?  Why 
does  any  woman  want  to  have  some  other  occupa- 
tion than  looking  after  her  house  and  family?  " 

M  And,  of  course,  you  haven't  even  got  a  family, 
now?  "  Stephen  put  in  on  a  note  of  conciliation. 

11  Only  a  very  small  one,"  she  returned  with  a 
slight  embarrassment. 

He  did  not  follow  that.  "  No  children,  at  least 
only  grown  up  ones,  I  meant,"  he  said. 

Oh !  didn't  you  know  that  you  had  a  little  half- 
brother?  "  Cecilia  asked,  striving  for  a  lightness  of 
touch  that  she   failed  to  achieve.     She  wanted  to 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        183 

win  Stephen  back  to  her  now,  and  she  knew  intui- 
tively that  this  confession  held  an  element  of  dan- 
ger. She  felt,  absurdly,  as  if  she  were  admitting 
some  infidelity. 

And  Stephen,  on  his  part,  was  certainly  experienc- 
ing a  sensation  that  can  only  be  likened  to  a  twinge 
of  jealousy.  He  had  been  jealous  of  Christopher 
Threlfall,  seven  years  before,  but  this  seemed  a 
nearer,  more  personal  thing.  In  the  surprise  of  the 
moment,  indeed,  he  could  not  conceal  his  repugnance 
to  the  news  she  had  sprung  upon  him.  He  had  a 
queer  sense  that  she  had  somehow  taken  an  unfair 
advantage  of  his  separation  from  her. 

"  No,  I  didn't  know,"  he  said  moodily.  "  When? 
I  mean  how  old  is  he?  " 

Cecilia  was  watching  him  anxiously.  She  was 
glad  that  he  should  be  annoyed;  but  she  knew 
that  the  situation  was  critical,  that  if  she  were  not 
careful  she  might  lose  him.  Her  temperament 
prompted  her  to  risk  everything  on  a  single  throw. 

She  leaned  forward  and  looked  at  Stephen  as  she 
might  once  have  looked  at  Christopher  Threlfall. 

u  He's  just  six;  but  he  won't  make  any  difference 
—  to  us,  Stephen,"  she  said.  "  No  one  else  could 
ever  take  your  place  with  me.  My  dear,  you  don't 
know  how  I've  missed  you;  and  how  I've  searched 
that  wretched  Medboro'  paper,  every  week,  looking 
for  your  name  if  it  were  only  in  the  score  of  a  cricket 
match." 

Stephen  was  confused.  He  blushed  and  looked 
down,  as  if  he  could  not  bear  to  meet  her  eyes.  But 
in  his  heart,  he  was  immensely  flattered,  he  was 
thrilled  and  rejoicing. 

"Did  you  really?"  he  replied  clumsily.  "  I 
thought  you'd  probably  forgotten  all  about  me." 

She  got  up  and  came  over  to  him,  stooped  grace- 


184       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

fully  and  kissed  his  hair.  "  Some  day,  dear  —  some 
day  soon,  now,  I  hope  —  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it," 
she  said,  resting  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  I've 
suffered  more  than  you  could  ever  guess,  and  I  do 
want  my  little  boy,  Stephen,  back  again." 

"  Well,  you've  got  me  back,"  he  mumbled,  still  too 
confused  to  look  up  at  her.     "  It's  all  right,  now." 

She  laughed  with  an  assumption  of  lightness  and 
went  back  to  her  own  chair,  without  pressing  him 
further.  She  knew  that  her  game  was  won  for  the 
time  being;  and  having  got  him  back  she  had  perfect 
confidence  in  her  power  to  hold  him.  "  It's  the  priv- 
ilege of  an  old  woman  to  be  a  little  sentimental  with 
her  children,"  she  said  gayly.  "  And,  now,  Stephen 
dear,  I'm  going  to  ring  for  Christopher  and  your 
grandfather.  I  told  them  not  to  come  up  until  I 
had  had  my  talk  with  you.  But  they  both  want  to 
see  you  again.  You  don't  mind,  do  you?  Your 
grandfather  has  always  had  a  soft  place  in  his  heart 
for  you." 

"  No,  I  don't  mind;  rather  not,"  Stephen  said. 
The  flush  had  not  yet  died  out  of  his  cheeks  and  he 
had  to  make  an  effort  to  appear  at  ease.  But  as 
she  put  out  her  hand  to  the  bell,  he  realized  the 
feebleness  of  his  own  part  in  the  little  drama  they 
had  been  playing,  and  tried  to  show  her  that  gauche 
as  his  manner  had  been,  it  had  hidden  a  very  real 
emotion. 

"  I  —  I  needn't  call  you  '  aunt '  before  them, 
need  I?  "  he  asked.  "  It's  —  it's  rather  jolly  to  say 
1  mother '  again." 

"  Dear  little  boy,"  Cecilia  returned  with  a  fond 
smile  that  sealed  their  pledge  of  renewed  affection; 
and  added,  "  You  look  so  much  nicer  without  that 
horrid  mustache." 

Stephen  glowed  again.     In  those  few  minutes,  he 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       185 

had  forgiven  her  everything;  her  old  desertion  of 
him,  the  chicanery  of  her  present  way  of  life;  even 
that  tragic  infidelity  which  had  permitted  her  to 
supersede  him,  to  rob  him  of  the  proud  distinction 
of  being  her  only  son.  She  was  such  an  amazing, 
splendid  and  charming  mother  for  a  man,  fresh  from 
the  dullness  of  Medboro',  the  sordid  realities  of 
Leicester,  and  the  depressions  of  a  bed-sitting  room 
in  Camberwell.  Some  day,  he  would  tell  her  how 
the  thought  of  her  had  blessedly  saved  him  from  the 
advances  of  Bessie  Ward. 


Stephen  found  in  Christopher  Threlfall,  greater 
and  more  reasonable  changes  than  those  exhibited 
by  Cecilia.  Threlfall  was  unquestionably  older  and 
fatter;  and  something  of  the  intellectuality  seemed 
to  have  gone  from  his  face.  He  had  begun  to  look 
a  little  coarse  and  self-satisfied.  Neither  his  man- 
ner nor  his  voice  had  changed,  however;  and  Stephen 
was  flattered  by  the  warmth  of  his  greeting. 

Old  Edwardes  on  the  other  hand  seemed  rather 
to  have  taken  Cecilia  as  his  pattern.  He  certainly 
looked  no  older  than  he  had  when  Stephen  had  last 
seen  him  on  the  night  of  the  great  crisis;  and,  now, 
he  had  so  evidently  found  a  milieu  that  suited  him. 
In  his  evening  dress  with  the  concession  made  either 
to  his  age  or  his  artistry,  by  a  black  velvet  dinner 
jacket,  he  might  have  sat  for  the  type  of  an  old  aris- 
tocrat. And  he  bore  his  seventy-seven  years  with 
the  pride  of  one  aware  of  his  undimmed  faculties. 
He  had  neither  the  air  nor  the  mannerisms  of  sen- 
ility. He  hailed  Stephen  with  a  warm  handshake 
and  a  slap  on  the  shoulder. 


i86       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

11  Heavens,  how  the  boy's  filled  out,"  he  said. 
"  Eh,  Threlfall'?     Just  feel  that  deltoid." 

"Ever  play  cricket,  now,  Stephen?"  Threlfall 
asked.  "  I  suppose  that  innings  of  yours  against 
the  town  has  taken  its  place  among  the  historical 
records  of  the  King's  School." 

uOh!  I  don't  know,"  Stephen  mumbled.  He 
was  proud  to  be  accepted  as  an  intimate  relation  into 
this  household  of  splendor,  and  luxury,  but  the  en- 
trance of  his  grandfather  and  Threlfall  had  revived 
the  consciousness  of  his  own  coarseness.  Never 
would  he  be  able  to  make  his  hands  look  like  those 
of  Threlfall  or  old  Edwardes.  Nor  did  he  think 
it  possible  that  he  could  ever  wear  evening  dress 
with  that  air  of  having  been  born  to  it.  Yet  his 
grandfather  had  been  a  despised  piano-tuner  living  in 
one  wretched  room  in  New  England.  And  if  breed 
were  the  explanation  of  his  ready  assumption  of  the 
ways  and  appearance  of  aristocracy,  surely  Stephen 
himself  had  the  same  advantage?  How  often  his 
motherhad  persuaded  him  that  he  was  a  true  Ed- 
wardes.^ She  had  even  instanced  his  hands.  He 
buried  them  hastily  in  his  jacket-pockets. 

11  Still  as  modest  as  ever,"  Threlfall  commented 
with  an  approving  smile.  He  had  taken  up  his 
stand  on  the  hearthrug  and  was  clipping  the  end  of 
a  cigar.     "  What  are  you  smoking?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  won't  smoke  now,  thanks,"  Stephen  said. 
Smoking  necessitated  the  use  of  his  hands.  He 
wished  that  they  would  talk  among  themselves  and 
let  him  listen. 

That,  however,  was  evidently  not  their  present  in- 
tention. He  was  the  visitor  of  the  evening,  and 
although  Stephen,  himself,  was  supremely  ignorant 
of  the  fact,  each  of  them  had  a  personal  reason  for 
welcoming  him. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        187 

They  questioned  him  about  his  work,  a  subject 
upon  which  he  could  at  least  give  intelligent  if  occa- 
sionally unintelligible  replies. 

"  Technical  beggar,  he  is,"  Threlfall  remarked 
after  one  of  these  recondities  had  slipped  off 
Stephen's  tongue.  "  What  in  the  name  of  Dickin- 
son is  a  '  sump,'  old  chap?  " 

"  It's  a  sort  of  well,"  Stephen  explained,  "  to  take 
the  surface  and  waste  water.  We've  got  a  very 
deep  foundation  you  see,  and  we're  below  the  level 
of  the  main  drain  and  have  to  pump  up  to  it." 

11  Newspaper  offices  you're  building,  aren't  they?  " 
Threlfall  asked. 

Stephen  nodded.  "  The  engine  house  is  in  the 
sub-basement,"  he  added.  "  On  the  raft,  you 
know." 

"  We'll  all  come  and  see  it,  and  you  must  take 
us  round,"  Cecilia  put  in. 

"  Yes,  rather,  when  there's  a  bit  more  to  see," 
Stephen  agreed.  "  We're  not  up  to  the  ground 
floor  yet,  with  anything  except  the  steel-work.  Take 
you  up  to  the  top  of  the  Scotchman,  of  course,  if  you 
like.  You  get  a  splendid  view  from  there ;  but  you'd 
have  to  go  up  in  the  bucket,  I  expect;  it's  an  awful 
climb." 

Threlfall  grinned.     "  Translate,"  he  said. 

"Which?"  Stephen  asked. 

"  Well,  Scotchman."  < 

"  Oh!  that's  the  derrick,  the  big  crane,"  Stephen 
said.  "  They  call  them  Scotchmen  in  the  trade  be- 
cause they  save  such  a  lot  of  money." 

He  had  had  no  idea  of  making  a  joke,  but  they  all 
laughed,  and  he  laughed  with  them. 

"  Well,  well,  I'll  wait  till  you  get  the  lift  in, 
Stephen,"  chuckled  old  Edwardes.  "  I  don't  quite 
see  myself  dangling  and  spinning  in  mid  air  on  one 


188        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

of  those  contrivances.     I  was  watching  one  in  Ox- 
ford Street,  the  other  day." 

"  I  suppose  you  think  nothing  of  it?  "  Threlfall 
enquired. 

I  don't  have  to  go  up,  often,"  Stephen  said. 
"  But  when  I  do,  I  go  up  in  the  bucket.  It  saves 
time.     It's  perfectly  safe,  of  course." 

He  found  that  Cecilia  was  regarding  him  with  a 
look  of  proud  approval. 

Everything  was  going  very  well,  Stephen  thought. 
He  was  beginning  to  realize  the  advantage  of  being 
an  expert  in  one  subject. 

At  half-past  ten,  Butler  brought  up  an  imposing 
selection  of  decanters,  aerated  water  bottles  and 
glasses  on  one  tray,  and  a  complete  apparatus  for 
making  tea  on  another.  Cecilia  looked  at  Stephen 
as  she  set  about  her  preparations. 

"  A  new  habit  of  mine,  little  boy,"  she  said. 
14  Will  you  have  tea,  too,  or  do  you  drink  whiskey 
and  soda,  now?  " 

uOh!  tea,  I  think,  thank  you,  mother,"  he  said. 
He  felt  that  she  had  strangely  singled  him  out  by 
that  little  speech.  She  had  made  an  implicit  refer- 
ence to  their  old  life  together  in  Long  Causeway; 
and  in  doing  it  had  told  him  that  he,  alone,  was 
able  fully  to  understand  her  old  life. 

As  he  took  his  cup  from  her,  he  bent  down  and 
said  in  a  low  voice,  You  must  have  so  many  new 
habits,  now." 

"  But  I  have  kept  a  few  old  ones,"  she  replied 
with  the  same  effect  of  making  a  suggestion  that 
only  he  could  understand. 

After  his  tea,  Stephen  began  to  smoke.  He  had 
forgotten  his  hands.  The  other  three  still  kept 
him  in  the  focus  of  interest,  but  now  they  had 
exhausted  their  enquiries  about  his  profession  and 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        189 

were  busy  discussing  his  future.  Cecilia  began  to 
make  plans  for  finding  him  rooms  in  Gower  Street 
or  Bloomsbury  Street,  the  very  next  morning. 

"  You  ought  to  have  a  sitting-room,"  she  said. 
"  Of  course  you  can  come  in  here  whenever  you  like, 
but  you  want  a  place  that  you  can  invite  your  own 
friends  to." 

Stephen  shook  his  head.  "  Haven't  got  any 
friends  of  that  sort,"  he  said.  "  Besides,  I  can't 
afford  two  rooms." 

Cecilia  conceded  that,  and  went  on  to  make  an 
appointment  for  him  the  next  day  at  the  shop  of 
her  husband's  tailor  in  Conduit  Street.  "  I'll  meet 
you  there  at  twelve  o'clock,"  she  said. 

Stephen  hesitated. 

"  Yes,  you  must,  Stephen,  I  insist,"  she  urged  him. 
"  You  promised  me  just  now  that  you'd  let  me 
give  you  a  complete  outfit.  Medboro'  clothes  are 
all  right  for  Medboro' ;  but  they  won't  do  for  town. 
Twelve  o'clock  in  Conduit  Street,  to-morrow, 
Stephen." 

"  Perhaps  he'd  sooner  meet  me,  there,"  Threlfall 
put  in  pleasantly.  "  A  man  doesn't  usually  take  his 
mother  to  his  tailor's." 

On  the  whole  Stephen  thought  that  he  would 
sooner  go  with  Threlfall. 

"  Very  well,"  Cecilia  agreed  good  humoredly. 
"  Only,  Christopher,  you  must  tell  them  to  get  him 
something  ready  by  next  Sunday." 

"  Rather  short  notice,"  Threlfall  said. 

"  Never  mind,  they'll  do  it  if  you  make  a  point 
of  it,"  Cecilia  replied. 

"  What  happens  on  Sunday?"  Stephen  asked, 
rather  absent-mindedly.  He  was  thinking  that  he 
would  have  to  go  down  to  the  Embankment  in  his 
best  clothes  the  next  day.     He  could  not  face  a 


190       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

Conduit  Street  tailor  in  the  suit  he  always  wore  at 
the  works.  Would  Bennett  mark  that  as  further 
evidence  that  young  Kirkwood  was  getting  too  big 
for  his  boots? 

"  Oh!  we  always  get  people  in  on  Sunday  after- 
noon," Cecilia  said  and  then  went  on  with  an  odd 
change  of  manner.  "  And  by  the  way  there'll  be 
some  one  you'll  remember  next  Sunday,  Margaret 
Weatherley,  Dr.  Weatherley's  eldest  girl.  She's 
walking  on,  just  for  fun,  at  the  Auditorium.  Some 
people  think  her  quite  beautiful.  But,  of  course,  she 
was  only  a  child  when  they  left  Medboro'.  You'd 
hardly  remember." 

Her  voice  had  suddenly  become  hard  and  bitter, 
and  Stephen  looked  up  with  an  acute  sense  of  wrong- 
doing. For  an  instant,  he  believed  that  his  mother 
must  have  known  in  some  wonderful,  intuitive  way 
that  she  had  named  the  one  being  who  could  ever 
come  between  them;  the  one  being  for  whose  sake 
he  might  desert  her  with  no  more  compunction  than 
she  had  once  deserted  him.  But  Cecilia  was  not 
looking  at  him  but  at  her  husband. 

11  Christopher  thinks  Margaret  quite  beautiful," 
she  continued;  "don't  you,  Christopher?" 

Threlfall  laughed  a  trifle  self-consciously. 
"  Oh !  I  don't  know  about  beautiful,"  he  said. 
"  She's  unquestionably  pretty."  He  turned  to 
Stephen  as  he  went  on,  speaking  rather  rapidly. 
11  Her  father,  you  know,  is  by  way  of  being  quite 
a  famous  publicist  tremendously  keen  on  Tariff  Re- 
form, still,  although  it  seems  a  bit  out  of  date,  now. 
All  the  same,  Weatherley's  a  man  to  be  taken  seri- 
ously. But,  I  don't  know,  if  you  take  the  least 
interest  in  politics,  Stephen?  " 

"  No.     I  don't  think  I  do,"  Stephen  said.     "  Nat- 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        191 

urally   I'm  up   against   the   Unions,    all   the    time. 
Every  builder  must  be." 

They  talked  for  a  few  minutes  of  the  Trades 
Union  movement,  but  all  the  life  had  gone  out  of 
the  evening.  For  the  first  time  it  was  evident  that 
they  were  making  polite  conversation.  The  touch 
of  a  living  interest  had  gone.  They  were  separated, 
each  of  them  preoccupied  with  some  personal 
thought  or  anxiety  that  they  wanted  greater  leisure 
to  consider. 

11 1  say,  I  ought  to  be  going,"  Stephen  said.  "  It's 
a  good  step  from  here  to  Camberwell." 

Not  going  to  walk,  are  you?  "  Threlfall  asked 
on  a  note  of  amused  suprrise. 

11  I  daresay  I  shall  pick  up  a  tram  at  the  bridge," 
Stephen  said. 

They  made  no  effort  to  detain  him ;  but  his  mother 
went  down  with  him  to  the  front  door.  She  kissed 
him  in  the  Hall,  as  she  said  u  good-night,"  and  im- 
pressed upon  him  the  importance  of  remembering 
his  engagement  with  Christopher  for  twelve  the  next 
day.  But  something  of  the  spirit  had  gone  out  of 
her  vivacity.  She  looked  tired,  and  now  Stephen 
could  see  that  the  past  seven  years  had,  indeed,  left 
their  mark  on  her. 


STEPHEN  went  to  Bedford  Square  the  follow- 
ing Sunday,  with  the  fixed  purpose  of  not 
allowing  himself  to  fall  in  love  with  Margaret 
Weatherley.  His  reasons  for  this  determination 
were  many  and  irreproachable.  The  chief  of  them 
was  that  he  must  ever  be  hopelessly  her  inferior. 
He  might  worship  her  from  a  respectful  distance, 
but  he  meant  if  possible  to  avoid  speaking  to  her. 

His  other  reasons,  if  equally  impeccable,  were 
less  idealistic.  He  realized,  for  example,  that  fall- 
ing in  love  with  Miss  Weatherley  would  be  a  waste 
of  life.  He  could  never  hope  to  marry  her.  Her 
father  was  a  rich  and  distinguished  man.  Stephen 
was  a  builder's  clerk  of  works,  the  son  of  a  small 
bookseller  and  of  a  woman  who,  however  wonderful 
and  brilliant  she  might  be,  was  probably  not  re- 
garded with  approval  by  Dr.  Weatherley.  Even  if 
Stephen  were  admitted  to  some  sort  of  junior  part- 
nership in  the  firm  two  years  hence,  he  would  not 
in  all  probability,  be  considered  eligible.  And  by 
way  of  a  dominating  and  determining  motive  giving 
force  to  all  his  other  reasons,  was  the  consciousness 
that  his  newly  recovered  relations  with  his  mother, 
would  not  admit  of  a  divided  allegiance. 

He  had  seen  Cecilia  twice  since  his  first  evening 
in  Bedford  Square,  and  although  she  had  given  him 
no  more  confidences  with  regard  to  her  inner  life,  she 

192 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       193 

had  displayed  a  new  attitude  towards  him.  She  had 
in  a  great  measure  relinquished  her  authority.  She 
seemed  to  lean  on  him,  to  look  to  him  for  strength 
and  sympathy.  That  charming  mood  of  tenderness 
which  in  the  old  days  had  been  reserved  for  those 
times  when  she  particularly  wished  to  reward  or  en- 
courage him,  had  been  uppermost  on  both  these  occa- 
sions. She  had  been  gentle  and  gracious  to  him, 
implying  both  by  her  words  and  her  manner  that  his 
presence  would,  in  future,  be  absolutely  essential  to 
her  happiness.  He  had  wondered,  but  had  not  yet 
dared  to  ask,  whether  her  second  marriage  had  not 
been  a  disappointment.  He  remembered  the  chill 
that  had  descended  upon  them  all,  when  she  had 
made  that  reference  to  Miss  Weatherley  on  the  night 
of  his  first  visit  to  their  house.  Was  it  possible  that 
Threlfall  had  shown  a  tendency  to  flirt  with  other 
women?  Stephen  was  sure  that  his  mother  would 
never  stand  that, —  not  even  from  himself.  She 
must  be  first;  a  fact  that  brought  him  back  again  to 
the  necessity  for  an  answering  fidelity. 

Finally,  he  quite  clearly,  even  passionately, 
wanted  to  be  faithful  to  her.  Something  of  pity 
had  begun  to  tinge  his  thought  of  her.  He  had 
not  seen  his  half-brother,  yet,  but  it  was  evident  that 
the  little  Christopher  was  not  greatly  loved  by  his 
mother.  Stephen  had  gathered  that  the  boy  had 
been  very  delicate,  had  been  spoiled,  and  had  devel- 
oped an  unruly  and  intensely  egotistical  temper. 
"  Chris  is  a  very  difficult  child,"  Cecelia  had  said, 
and  her  tone  had  implied  that  she  thought  a  stricter 
discipline  would  be  good  for  him.   .  .  . 

Stephen  had  a  fairly  good  conceit  of  himself,  this 
afternoon.  He  felt  protected  by  these  fine  resolu- 
tions to  devote  himself  to  his  mother;  as  if  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  could  and  would  please  her  made  him 


i94       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

independent  of  other  opinion.  Also,  he  was  aware 
of  being  well  dressed.  Mr.  Bland  of  Conduit  Street 
had  protested  that  the  request  to  supply  a  suit  in 
four  days  was  ridiculous ;  that  the  thing  could  not  be 
done,  and  even  if  it  could,  there  was  no  precedent 
for  such  an  undertaking  in  the  annuals  of  a  firm 
which  had  been  established  in  the  days  of  William 
IV.  And  Threlfall  had  smiled  and  agreed,  and 
when  the  suggestion  had  been  finally  argued  out  of 
existence,  had  said,  "  Well,  Bland,  I'm  sure  you'll 
find  a  way  of  doing  it  for  once,  as  a  favor."  And 
the  miracle  had  been  performed.  The  remainder  of 
the  large  order  was  not  to  be  delivered  for  a  fort- 
night, after  endless  further  ordeals  of  "  trying  on." 
Stephen  had  not,  it  must  be  confessed,  any  real  feel- 
ing for  clothes.  He  liked  to  feel  inconspicuous,  and 
he  knew  that  the -only  way  to  achieve  a  relative  invis- 
ibility in  his  mother's  drawing-room  was  to  go  to  a 
West-end  tailor.  But  he  loathed  the  business  of 
ordering  and  trying-on,  and  the  result  only  pleased 
him  inasmuch  as  it  would  serve  as  a  kind  of  protec- 
tive coloration  in  the  society  he  was  going  to  meet. 

He  went  early  to  Bedford  Square  at  his  mother's 
suggestion,  and  found  her  alone  when  he  arrived. 
She  was  in  great  spirits  that  afternoon,  and  after 
looking  him  up  and  down  and  making  an  unnecessary 
readjustment  of  his  tie,  she  congratulated  him 
warmly  on  his  appearance. 

"  You  do  set  your  things  off  well,  Stephen,"  she 
said.  "  I  suppose  it's  your  build  and  the  way  you 
carry  yourself.  You'll  certainly  look  better  dressed 
than  any  who  who's  coming  this  afternoon.  They're 
all  either  theatrical  or  musical,  and  the  theatrical 
lot  will  be  overdressed  and  the  others  untidy.  Prob- 
ably you  and  Christopher  will  be  the  only  two  men 
in  the  room  who'll  look  like  gentlemen.     As  for  the 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       195 

women, —  but  never  mind  that.  When  are  you  go- 
ing to  move  your  things  to  the  place  in  Bloomsbury 
Street?  I  do  want  to  have  you  a  little  nearer. 
Camberwell  is  so  dreadfully  out  of  the  way." 

Stephen  said  he  proposed  to  move  on  the  follow- 
ing Saturday,  and  after  she  had  protested  that  he 
might  just  as  well  have  gone  in  at  once,  and  paid 
his  Camberwell  landlady  a  week's  rent  in  lieu  of 
notice,  she  began  to  plan  all  the  things  they  would 
do  together  when  she  had  him  living  so  conveniently 
near. 

She  was  still  planning  when  Threlfall  joined  them 
and  she  expounded  the  essentials  of  her  program  to 
him  as  a  scheme  finally  settled.  Stephen  had  a  pass- 
ing doubt  as  to  whether  Threlfall  might  not  resent 
what  apparently  promised  to  be  the  permanent  intru- 
sion of  a  new  member  into  the  Bedford  Square 
household,  but  he  seemed  on  the  contrary  to  be  gen- 
uinely pleased  by  the  proposal. 

"  That  will  be  jolly,"  he  approved  in  a  voice  that 
carried  some  suggestion  of  relief;  and  Stephen  felt 
comforted  and  a  little  stirred. 


The  "  At  Home  "  so  far  as  Stephen  was  con- 
cerned was  divided  into  two  distinct  and  unrelated 
periods. 

Daring  the  first  he  conscientiously  did  his  best, 
and  in  his  own  opinion,  at  least,  succeeded.  People, 
quite  a  lot  of  people,  drifted  in  and  out.  A  few  of 
them  stayed;  but  the  majority  put  in  an  appearance 
for  half-an-hour  or  so,  and  then  left.  Among  this 
crowd,  Butler  and  two  female  acolytes  dexterously 
threaded  their  way  with  salvers  bearing  chiefly  tea 
and  cakes,  although  there  were  whiskey  and  liqueurs 


196       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

and  other  excitements  on  a  side  table  that  had  got 
into  one  corner  of  the  room  and  was  trying  not  to 
look  like  a  buffet. 

All  you  had  to  do,  Stephen  found,  was  to  get 
reasonably  out  of  the  way  and  watch  and  listen, — 
so  far  as  you  could  listen  to  anything  particular, 
through  that  bright  high  clatter  of  women's  voices 
and  laughter.  They  were,  he  privately  decided,  a 
very  noisy  lot.  Now  and  again  his  mother  would 
snatch  him  out  of  his  retreat  and  introduce  him  to 
some  star  of  the  theatrical  or  musical  world  as  "  My 
nephew,  Stephen  Kirkwood,"  bringing  out  his  name 
with  an  aplomb  that  seemed  to  give  it  a  great  air  of 
distinction.  But  none  of  these  introductions  in- 
volved him  in  the  difficulties  of  polite  conversation. 
His  new  acquaintance  either  bowed,  made  the  usual 
acknowledgment  of  the  pleasure  derived  from  this 
brief  encounter,  and  turned  to  some  other  distrac- 
tion; or  after  a  few  seconds  of  rapid  and  irrelevant 
gabble  was  diverted  by  the  appearance  of  some  more 
familiar  friend. 

Stephen's  first  approach  to  any  intelligible  talk 
was  in  progress  when  the  first  period  of  the  after- 
noon suddenly  ended  and  the  second  began. 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  by  that  time,  and  the 
room  was  less  crowded.  Cecilia  had  an  air  that  said 
the  worst  was  now  over,  and  was  smoking  a  cigar- 
ette,—  another  of  her  new  habits.  She  caught  sight 
of  Stephen  across  the  room,  hailed  him  with  a  smile 
and  then  brought  across  to  him  a  plain  but  intellec- 
tual-looking woman  of  forty  or  so,  whom  she  intro- 
duced as  Mona  Crantock  with  the  aside  "  You  know, 
dear.  She  wrote  that  extraordinary  play,  '  The 
Fire  of  God  '  that  every  one  has  been  talking  about." 

Miss  Crantook  looked  at  Stephen  with  interest. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        197 

"  Ought  I  to  know  you?  "  she  asked.     "  Have  you 
got  anything  to  do  with  the  stage  ?  " 

"  Nothing  whatever,"  Stephen  said. 

"  Nor  with  literature?  M  she  went  on. 

"  Nor  with  literature,"  he  repeated. 

"Politics,  perhaps?"  she  tried. 

Stephen  laughed.  He  was  attracted  by  her  air 
of  candor  and  perfect  self-possession.  "  I  don't  do 
anything  important,"  he  said.     "  I'm  just  anybody." 

"  One  of  Cecilia's  ornaments?"  suggested  Miss 
Crantock. 

11  If  that,"  he  hazarded. 

"  You  looked  so  distinguished,"  she  went  on.  "  I 
thought  at  first  you  must  be  either  a  successful  young 
actor  or  one  of  these  modern  poets  that  cut  their 
hair  and  dress  like  undergraduates.  But  afterwards 
I  decided  that  it  must  be  politics.  Don't  you  do 
anything?  " 

I'm  a  —  a  builder,"  he  said.  He  was  not  sure 
that  his  mother  would  like  him  to  describe  himself 
as  a  clerk  of  the  works. 

Miss  Crantock  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 
"  What  do  you  build?  "  she  asked.  "  Empires,  for 
example?  " 

M  Just  buildings,"  he  explained.  "  I'm  looking 
after  those  big  newspaper  offices  that  are  going  up 
on  the  Embankment,  not  far  from  de  Keyser's 
Hotel.     I  don't  know  if  you  know  the  place?  " 

"  How  wonderful!"  Miss  Crantock  exclaimed 
fervidly.  "  Yes,  I  know  the  place,  with  that  enor- 
mous crane  that  pushes  its  great  beak  about  as  if 
it  were  trying  to  see  over  the  tops  of  all  the  houses. 
And  do  you  really  know  how  and  where  everything 
has  got  to  go.  It  has  always  been  incredible  to  me 
that  any  one  could  plan,  ahead,  all  the  details  of  a 


198        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

place  like  that.  Tell  me,  don't  you  leave  a  lot  to 
chance  and  work  it  in  as  you  go  along?  " 

"  Well,  hardly,"  Stephen  said,  smiling.  "  For  in- 
stance," he  continued,  seeking  still  further  to  arouse 
her  naive  astonishment;  "we  know  almost  to  a 
pound  of  nails  how  much  material  we  are  going  to 
use  in  the  job,  before  it's  begun." 

"  It's  incredible,"  gasped  Miss  Crantock,  and  in 
her  rapt  contemplation  of  this  marvel,  she  missed 
the  change  in  her  companion's  manner  when  Butler 
announced:  "  Miss  Margaret  Weatherley;  Miss 
Grace  Weatherley." 

Stephen  had  ceased  to  expect  her,  and  had  been 
relieved  by  her  absence.  If  his  determinations  were 
to  be  maintained,  it  was  just  as  well  to  avoid  temp- 
tation. He  had  meant  to  refrain  from  looking  at 
her  or  speaking  to  her,  if  it  were  possible,  and  he 
had  known  that  the  first  of  those  two  acts  of  self- 
denial  might  prove  exceedingly  difficult.  For  he  had 
no  doubt  that,  in  some  mysterious  way,  Margaret 
Weatherley  was  to  have  an  extraordinary  influence 
upon  him. 

She  had  appeared,  leaping  suddenly  out  of  the 
even  background  of  life,  at  two  critical  moments  of 
spiritual  disturbance  arising  from  his  relations  with 
his  mother.  And  although  he  did  not  consciously 
recognize  any  meaning  or  intention  in  this  coinci- 
dence, he  was  fully  aware  that  the  personality  of 
Margaret  Weatherley  had  an  incomprehensible  sig- 
nificance for  him.  Why  the  thought  of  her  should 
be  mingled  with  fear,  he  did  not,  and  never  at- 
tempted to,  understand.  The  reasonable  explana- 
tion of  his  impulse  to  avoid  her  was  contained  in  his 
realization  of  his  own  social  inferiority  and  of  the 
fact  that  Margaret  was  in  some  sense,  a  rival  to  his 
mother. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       199 

And,  now,  when  Margaret  came  at  the  last  mo- 
ment and  unexpectedly  into  his  mother's  drawing- 
room,  Stephen's  impulse  to  fly  from  her  rose  for  an 
instant,  almost  to  panic.  For  seeing  her,  here, 
clearly  for  the  first  time,  he  saw  that  she  was  more 
unattainable  and  dangerous  than  he  had  ever 
dreamed.  She  was,  indeed,  one  of  those  rarely 
beautiful  women  who  intoxicate  men's  minds  with  the 
fumes  of  romance.  Her  features  and  complexion 
would  have  passed  triumphantly  the  common  tests 
of  beauty,  but  it  was  rather  the  proportions  and  as 
it  were,  the  delicate  finish  of  her  that  created  that 
striking  impression  of  unusual  perfection.  No  man 
looking  at  her  would  have  paused  in  the  first  in- 
stance to  enquire  what  kind  of  spirit  or  intelligence 
animated  that  ideal  loveliness.  Ninety-nine  men 
out  of  a  hundred  would,  if  they  had  had  the  chance, 
have  married  her  without  enquiring.  Her  beauty 
was,  for  the  male  mind,  sufficient;  and  she  was  by 
virtue  of  it  exempt  from  criticism.  Nevertheless 
the  effect  of  her  upon  the  hopelessly  ineligible  was 
often  one  of  disguised  resentment.  Young  clerks 
would  stare  after  her  in  the  street,  nudge  each  other 
in  their  first  bewilderment,  and  find  expression  for 
their  feelings  in  a  rakish  "  By  Gad !  "  Afterwards 
they  would  seek  a  cause  to  depreciate  her  attractions. 
"Shouldn't  care  to  marry  a  girMike  that,  all  the 
same,"  they  would  protest,  seeking  to  reestablish 
their  own  pride. 

Little  wonder  that  Stephen  was  a  trifle  panic- 
stricken. 

Miss  Crantock,  posing  an  important  question  with 
regard  to  the  general  methods  of  building,  was  sur- 
prised to  receive  no  answer,  and  withdrew  her  gaze 
from  the  thought-projected  screen,  upon  which  she 
was  trying  to  visualize  her  idea  of  construction  in 


200       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

order  to  look  at  her  companion.  When  she  saw 
that  he  was  watching  Margaret,  Miss  Crantock 
laughed  gayly. 

uYes!  isn't  she?"  she  asked. 

Stephen  desperately  disengaged  himself  from  the 
hypnotic  influence. 

I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said. 

11  You  needn't,"  Miss  Crantock  replied.  "  I'm 
not  jealous;  it  always  happens.  When  you're  in 
the  middle  of  a  fascinating  conversation  with  a  man 
and  he  suddenly  says  4  By  Jove,  who's  that  girl?  ' 
you  reply  '  Oh !  Margaret  Weatherley,'  without 
troubling  to  look  up." 

"You  know  her,  then?"  was  all  Stephen  could 
find  to  say. 

"  Yes,  I  thought  of  writing  a  play  for  her,  but  she 
can't  act  and  knows  it.  This  walking-in  business  at 
the  Auditorium  is  just  frivolity.  She's  the  sort  of 
young  woman  who  could  make  the  fortunes  of  a 
musical  comedy  by  just  being  Margaret  Weatherley, 
but  I  fancy  she  has  got  too  much  sense  for  that." 

"  Has  she?  "  commented  Stephen.  He  was  quite 
content  to  listen,  if  Miss  Crantock  would  go  on  dis- 
cussing this  subject,  and  she  on  her  part  had  realized 
that  she  would  get  no  more  information  about  the 
mysteries  of  building,  just  then. 

"  Yes,  really  she  isn't  a  bad  sort  of  girl,"  she 
said,  speaking  with  the  privileged  detachment  of  a 
sister-woman.  "  Spoilt,  of  course;  but  that  was  in- 
evitable. All  the  same  she  seems  quite  a  sensible, 
good-natured  little  thing  if  you  get  her  alone  with 
no  men  in  the  room.  It  doesn't  give  her  a  chance 
to  be  herself  when  every  man  she  meets  insists  upon 
adoring  her,  as  if  she'd  just  come  straight  down  from 
God.  Perhaps,  some  day  she'll  fall  in  love  with 
some  good  practical  creature  who'll  consent  to  over- 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       201 

look  her  beauty  for  the  sake  of  her  other  virtues. 
Her  only  other  chance,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  would  be 
to  marry  a  blind  man." 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephen. 

"  Instead  of  which,"  concluded  Miss  Crantock, 
"  she'll  probably  marry  some  blase  aristocrat,  with 
six  houses,  a  steam  yacht  and  a  ruined  constitution. 
She'd  be  worth  that  in  the  open  market." 

Stephen  shivered.  Although  he  was  eager  to  in- 
sist upon  the  complete  hopelessness  of  his  own 
chances,  he  hoped  that  Margaret  might  meet  with 
a  happier  fate  than  that  prophesied  by  Miss  Cran- 
tock. 

"  You've  never  seen  her  before,  I  suppose?  "  she 
continued. 

M  Practically  not  —  at  least  not  for  seven  years," 
Stephen  said. 

Miss  Crantock's  woolly  black  eyebrows  went  up 
with  an  expression  of  interested  surprise. 

"  Dr.  Weatherley,  her  father,  was  the  headmaster 
of  the  school  I  went  to  in  Medboro',  before  he  came 
into  his  money,"  Stephen  explained. 

"  He  has  got  the  manners  of  a  schoolmaster  still," 
commented  Miss  Crantock.  "  And  I  suppose,  even 
at  —  how  old,  thirteen,  fourteen?  —  her  ladyship 
was,  well,  adored,  by  the  boys  at  the  school?  " 

"  In  a  way,"  Stephen  said. 

"Including  Mr.  Kirkwood,  no  doubt?"  Miss 
Crantock  persisted  with  a  grim  smile. 

Stephen  blushed  furiously.  The  blood  so  burnt 
his  face  that  he  had  to  stoop  to  cover  his  shame. 
"Me?  Oh,  no,"  he  mumbled.  "I  —  I've  never 
spoken  to  her." 

"  Oh!  spoken  to  her!  What's  that?  "  persisted 
Miss  Crantock  ruthlessly.  "  Didn't  she  ever  make 
eyes  at  you?  " 


202       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

Until  then,  Stephen  had  taken  a  certain  pleasure 
in  his  companion's  conversation,  but  that  last  ques- 
tion made  him  suddenly  furious.  "  No,  she  did 
not,"  he  said  savagely. 

Miss  Crantock  nodded  her  head  with  an  air  of 
having  got  all  she  wanted.  "  I  daresay  she  never 
got  the  chance?  "  she  remarked. 

u  No,"  Stephen  replied  curtly.  His  face  still 
burnt  as  if  he  had  been  all  day  in  the  hot  sun.  He 
wished  that  he  could  get  rid  of  this  ugly,  inquisitive 
woman  who  was  so  callously  searching  out  the  hidden 
secrets  of  his  soul.  He  looked  round  for  a  means  of 
release  and  could  see  none.  Margaret, —  with  her 
back  to  him, —  his  mother  and  Threlfall  were  talk- 
ing in  a  compact  little  group  by  the  fireplace.  The 
other  people  in  the  room, —  six  or  seven  in  all,  now, 
—  were  involved  in  two  other  groups,  each  of  them 
apparently  engrossed  in  discussion.  The  idea  of 
quietly  escaping,  without  a  word  to  any  one,  pre- 
sented itself  to  him  as  full  of  saving  possibilities. . 

11  I  ought  to  be  going,"  he  said,  nerving  himself 
to  face  Miss  Crantock's  exploring  stare. 

"  Not  without  speaking  to  Miss  Weatherley, 
surely?"  she  commented  with  an  ironical  smile. 
"  After  seven  years,  you  know.  Such  a  delightfully 
Biblical  period!  Don't  you  feel  at  all  like  Jacob, 
waiting  for  his  reward?  Only,  of  course,  Laban 
put  him  off  with  the  wrong  one." 

Stephen  was  not  listening.  He  had  been  staring 
intently  at  his  mother,  hoping  to  catch  her  eye 
and  signal  to  her  that  he  was  going  quietly.  But 
Cecilia  seemed  to  be  quite  unaware  of  his  call  for 
help,  and  then  without  the  least  warning,  Mar- 
garet turned  right  round  and  looked  straight  at 
him. 

Stephen's   heart  began  to  beat  painfully.     The 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       203 

concussion  of  it  seemed  to  shake  his  whole  body. 
For  a  moment  he  wondered  if  he  were  going  to  faint. 
He  felt  that  if  she  came  over  to  him,  he  could  not 
endure  it;  that  he  would  have  to  rush  disgracefully 
out  of  the  room. 

He  was  spared  that  humiliation,  for  Margaret 
after  a  moment  of  suspense  turned  back  to  her  con- 
versation with  Threlfall  and  Cecilia.  But  she  had 
recognized  him  and  once  again  she  had  smiled;  not, 
as  when  she  had  first  chosen  him,  with  a  gay  coquet- 
tishness,  but  reflectively,  reminiscently,  with  a  serious 
consideration. 

Stephen  recovered  his  normal  consciousness  to  the 
sound  of  Miss  Crantock's  voice,  saying,  in  a  teasing 
whisper,  "  She  hasn't  forgotten  you,  you  see,  after 
all  these  long  years.  Surely  you  won't  go,  now, 
without  speaking  to  her?  " 

Stephen  felt  strongly  urged  to  reply,  "  What  on 
earth  has  that  to  do  with  you?  "  Miss  Crantock's 
presence  annoyed  him.  He  wanted  a  minute's  lei- 
sure to  debate  the  tremendous  alternatives  of  go- 
ing at  once  or  risking  an  introduction  to  Margaret. 
Now  that  that  trembling  fit  had  passed,  he  felt  rather 
more  sure  of  himself.  He  had  found  the  common 
excuse  for  not  wanting  her  too  passionately.  She 
was  just  too  beautiful  to  love.  She  was  a  picture,  a 
work  of  art,  a  creature  of  genius  to  be  contemplated 
with  profound  respect  and  admiration  from  a  re- 
straining distance.  To  fall  in  love  with  her  would, 
he  knew_  instinctively,  involve  the  risk  of  complete 
destruction.  Once  a  man  allowed  a  desire  for  the 
perfect  to  overcome  him,  he  was  lost.  The  passion 
would  grow  until  it  dominated  him ;  until  his  sanity, 
his  regard  for  all  the  reasonable  joys  of  life,  was 
drowned  in  one  overwhelming  lust  for  posses- 
sion. .  .  . 


204       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"  I  daresay  I  shall  stay  a  little  longer,"  he  told 
Miss  Crantock. 

It  may  be  that  something  in  his  tone  had  its  effect 
upon  her,  or  possibly  she  decided  that  her  passion  for 
dissection  would  find  greater  satisfaction  in  witness- 
ing the  encounter  of  Stephen  and  Margaret  than  in 
any  further  probing  of  him  alone,  for  she  dropped 
her  air  of  banter  as  she  said, 

11  You  know  a  woman  finds  it  very  difficult  to  un- 
derstand just  this  belle-a-faire-peur  business;  but 
really  men  do  seem  to  be  quite  literally  afraid  of  a 
beautiful  woman  sometimes  —  as  if  she  were  some- 
how a  dangerous  creature." 

Stephen  was  relieved  to  hear  his  own  vague 
thought  expressed,  but  he  was  unable  to  make  an 
articulate  response. 

"  Do  they?"  he  said. 

u  Well,  if  I  may  be  permitted  the  personal  in- 
stance," Miss  Crantock  replied;  "  you  rather  gave 
me  the  impression  of  —  funk." 

"  Did  I?  "  Stephen  answered  carelessly  He  was 
vaguely  aware  that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  hide 
his  true  feelings,  at  any  cost  —  even  from  himself. 
He  had  to  deceive  his  own  eyes;  to  seek  in  Margaret, 
flaws  that  did  not  exist,  and  to  find  them. 

u0h!  well,"  sighed  Miss  Crantock.  "  If  you 
won't,  you  won't,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  I  sup- 
pose I  couldn't  persuade  you  to  give  me  a  little  more 
information  about  building,  could  I?  " 

Stephen  might  have  agreed  to  that,  if  it  were  only 
to  stop  his  companion's  dissection,  but  before  he 
could  reply  the  little  group  by  the  fireplace  broke  up 
and  he  realized  that  the  moment  of  his  trial  was  at 
hand.  Cecilia  and  Margaret  were  coming  towards 
him,  and  he  braced  himself  to  the  act  of  defensive 
criticism. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       205 

"  You  remember  Miss  Weatherley,  Stephen? " 
Cecilia  was  saying.  "  She  says  she  remembers  you, 
so  you  ought  to  feel  nattered.  Though  how  she  can 
pretend  to  have  picked  you  out  among  all  that  crowd 
of  dirty  little  boys,  I  don't  know."  Then  turning  to 
Miss  Crantock,  she  went  on  "  Are  you  coming  to  tell 
me  about  that  play,  Nora?  You'll  stay  to  supper, 
won't  you  ?  There'll  only  be  ourselves  and  Stephen 
and  Margaret  and  her  sister." 

That  announcement  and  the  thought  of  the  coming 
ordeal  that  it  foreshadowed,  was  completely  occupy- 
ing Stephen's  attention.  He  had  not  heard  Mar- 
garet's opening,  and  he  missed  her  repetition  of  it,  as 
he  watched  the  departure  of  his  mother  and  Miss 
Crantock.  He  would  have  liked  to  say  at  once  that 
he  had  no  intention  of  staying  to  supper,  but  that 
undertaking  would  have  necessitated  a  considerable 
expenditure  of  nervous  energy  and  he  had  none  to 
spare. 

"Are  you  living  in  London,  now?"  Margaret 
asked  for  the  third  time.     "  Shall  we  sit  down?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  he  said,  addressing  the  open  spaces 
of  the  room,  and  then  finding  that  Margaret  had 
seated  herself  on  the  Chesterfield  from  which  Miss 
Crantock  had  just  risen,  he  made  an  effort  and  sat 
down,  too. 

"  Yes,  I've  been  living  in  London  since  last  Febru- 
ary," he  repeated. 

"  I  thought  I  saw  you  waiting  by  the  stage-door 
of  the  Auditorium  about  a  week  ago?  "  Margaret 
continued  lightly. 

"  Yes,  I  was  waiting  for  my  .  .  .  for  Mrs.  Threl- 
fall,"  he  said. 

Margaret  dropped  her  voice  discreetly.  "  Oh !  it 
isn't  a  secret  from  me,"  she  said.  "  Of  course  I 
know  that  Cecilia  is  your  mother.     I  remember  her 


206       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

frightfully  well,  when  she  used  to  sing  and  tell  stories 
at  Medboro'.  And  although  she  mayn't  believe  it, 
I  do  remember  you,  too,  at  the  King's  School/' 

He  looked  at  her,  then,  in  sheer  amazement.  He 
could  not  understand  how  she  could  possibly  refer  in 
this  tone  of  calm  detachment  to  that  meeting  of  their 
spirits  in  the  dining-room  of  the  King's  School.  Yet 
neither  on  her  face  nor  in  her  voice  could  he  find  the 
least  hint  of  any  consciousness  that  she  had  once 
beckoned  him  with  an  intimate  smile,  and  that  they 
were  inevitably  linked  together  by  sharing  this 
strange  and  perilous  secret. 

She  misread  or  chose  to  misread  his  look  of  blank 
enquiry.  u  But  I  see  that  you've  completely  forgot- 
ten," she  said  with  an  air  of  being  prepared  to  for- 
give him. 

11  Forgotten?  Me?  "  he  asked  in  shocked  aston- 
ishment. "  No  I  think  it  must  be  you  who's  for- 
gotten? "  He  was  drowning  and  he  knew  it,  and  he 
was  too  bewildered  to  care.  A  man  could  only  die 
once. 

She  raised  her  pretty  eyebrows,  looking  straight 
into  his  eyes.  "  But  I've  just  told  you  that  I  re- 
membered," she  said. 

"  Yes,  but  what?"  he  returned.  "  Just  having 
seen  me?  " 

"  What  else  was  there  to  remember?  "  she  asked. 
"  I'm  sure  I  never  spoke  to  you." 

An  echo  of  Miss  Crantock's  comment  came  back 
to  him.     "  Oh !  spoke  to  me,  no,"  he  said. 

She  pretended  complete  innocence.  "  Do  tell  me 
what  I've  forgotten,"  she  begged  him. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Perhaps,  I  made  a  mis- 
take," he  said. 

11  Whatever  it  was,  it  seems  to  have  been  some- 
thing very  serious,"  she  remarked. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       207 

And  quite  suddenly  it  occurred  to  Stephen  to  won- 
der just  how  serious  the  effects  of  that  smile  had  pos- 
sibly been.  Had  not  his  grandfather  asked  on  the 
fatal  night  of  the  elopement  whether  Stephen  had 
fallen  in  love  and  if  his  mother  knew  it  ?  And  had  he 
not  in  fact  taken  up  a  different  attitude  to  his  mother, 
as  a  consequence  of  that  one  slight  intimation  of 
Margaret's  recognition?  Cecilia  might  not  have 
guessed  that  he  was  in  love,  but  she  had  been  aware 
of  a  change  in  him;  and  that  intuition  of  hers  might 
have  been  the  deciding  factor  that  finally  tipped  the 
delicate  balance  of  her  motives.  Had  she  not  said 
on  the  evening  of  that  Saturday:  "  Oh  you  don't 
want  me  any  more?  " 

"  I  wonder  just  how  serious  it  was?  "  he  said  very 
gravely. 

"  But,  really  .  .  ."  Margaret  began  in  a  more 
earnest  tone,  affected  by  his  strange  solemnity.  "  I 
mean  if  I  .  .  ."  She  sighed,  and  gave  it  up. 
"Oh!  what  do  you  mean?"  she  concluded  pet- 
ulantly. 

Never  had  she  found  a  man  so  apparently  disin- 
clined to  flirt  with  her;  and  she  had  wanted  to  flirt 
with  him.  There  was  something  about  him  that  at- 
tracted her,  now,  just  as  it  had  attracted  her  seven 
years  ago. 

Stephen  realized  that  every  postponement  of  his 
answer  was  increasing  the  significance  of  the  impend- 
ing disclosure.  By  the  time  it  came,  it  would  have 
the  effect  of  an  avowal.  Was  it  possible  that  for 
the  second  time  within  seven  days  he  was  going  to 
propose  to  a  woman  at  his  first  meeting  with  her? 
He  made  a  strong  effort  to  combat  that  absurd  feel- 
ing he  had  of  the  transcending  importance  of  this 
conversation.  Nevertheless,  he  could  not  look  at 
her  as  he  spoke.     He  leaned  a  little  forward  with 


208       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

his  hands  between  his  knees  and  stared  down. at  the 
rose-pink  carpet. 

"  Oh!  it  was  nothing,  really,  nothing  at  all,"  he 
said.  M  But  it  did  happen  one  day,  the  day  before 
you  went  away  from  Medboro'  on  account  of  that 
scare  of  the  measles,  you  remember  .  .  ." 

"  I  do.  ^   I  had  'em,"  she  put  in.     "  Well?  " 

14  It  —  it  happened  as  you  were  going  out  of  the 
dining-room;  you  turned  round  and  —  and  smiled. 
I  don't  suppose  you  were  smiling  at  me,  but  at  the 
time,  I  thought  you  were,  and  —  and  that's  all,  I 
think." 

44  But  why  be  so  serious  over  it?  "  she  asked. 

44 1  thought  you  meant  it  —  the  smile  —  for  me," 
he  said. 

44 1  did,"  she  replied  calmly. 

44  Why?  "he  asked. 

44  I  had  a  romantic  mind  at  fourteen,"  she  told 
him,  "  and  I  thought  it  would  be  rather  a  delightful 
and  desperate  thing  to  smile  at  one  of  the  boys.  I 
chose  you,  because  I  liked  the  look  of  you  more 
than  any  of  the  others.  But  I  still  don't  see  why 
you  need  make  such  a  mystery  of  it  all.  Hasn't  any- 
body smiled  at  you  since?  " 

44  I  don't  remember,"  he  replied  with  a  quiet  sin- 
cerity that  nearly  scared  her.  If  he  were  making 
love  to  her,  it  was  a  new  method  in  her  experience^ 
and  she  was  not  sure  that  it  might  not  be  dangerous. 
If  he  were  dreadfully  in  earnest  —  and  his  conversa- 
tion rather  implied  that  he  was  —  he  might  upset 
the  happy  inconsequence  of  her  life.  At  the  same 
time,  nothing  was  so  fascinating  as  real  danger,  and 
she  did  not  want  to  escape  from  it  too  soon. 

44  Funny  sort  of  memory  you  must  have,"  she 
commented.  "  Can  you  only  remember  things  that 
happened  seven  years  ago?  " 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       209 

Stephen  was  about  to  reply  when  their  conversa- 
tion was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  his  little 
half-brother,  Chris.  He  had  not  been  allowed  to 
come  down  while  the  room  was  full  of  people. 
Cecilia  complained  that  he  was  a  nuisance,  and  that 
his  father  spoilt  him  in  a  way  that  was  absolutely 
ridiculous.  But  he  had  come,  now,  to  say  good- 
night to  his  father  and  mother  before  he  went  to  bed. 

He  was,  at  the  age  of  six  and  a  quarter,  an  in- 
teresting looking  child.  He  had  a  rather  long,  thin 
face  with  speculative,  intent  eyes  under  a  mop  of  fair 
hair.  All  of  his  dress  that  was  visible  was  a  holland 
tunic  and  a  pair  of  sandals.     His  thin  legs  were  bare. 

He  entered  the  room  with  a  quiet  air  of  self- 
confidence,  looked  round,  and  then  seeing  Margaret 
made  straight  for  her  and  climbed  into  her  lap,  ig- 
noring completely  the  advances  of  his  father. 

"  I've  been  expecting  you  for  ages,"  Margaret 
said.  "  It's  seven  o'clock.  Oughtn't  you  to  be  in 
bed  by  now?  " 

"  Nurse  wouldn't  let  me  come  till  the  people  were 
gone,"  he  replied;  "  an'  I  wouldn't  go  to  bed  without 
coming  down.  I  knew  you  was  here."  He  was 
looking  at  Stephen  with  a  slightly  puzzled  expres- 
sion, as  if  trying  to  decide  whether  he  was  going  to 
like  him.  Stephen's  answering  stare  was  almost  ab- 
surdly similar  in  kind. 

"  Haven't  you  ever  seen  your  brother  be- 
fore?" Margaret  asked. 

"Oh!"  ejaculated  Chris  with  a  slight  start  of 
surprise.     "  Are  you  Stephen?  " 

Stephen  nodded,  with  the  beginning  of  a  smile. 

Chris  held  out  his  hand.  "  I  wondered  when  I 
was  going  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "  Daddy  says  you're 
a  builder  and  you'll  show  me  how  to  build  properly, 
better  than  he  does.     He  doesn't  build  very  well, 


210       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

you  know.  Would  you  like  to  come  up  and  see  my 
bricks,  now?  " 

"  Yes,  rather,"  Stephen  agreed,  with  instant  en- 
thusiasm. He  leapt  at  this  chance  to  escape !  He 
flattered  himself  that  he  had  kept  his  head  remark- 
ably well  throughout  his  conversation  with  Mar- 
garet, but  he  felt  the  need  for  relaxation.  Also,  he 
was  pleased  by  Chris's  instant  approval. 

"  You  faithless  little  beggar,"  Margaret  put  in. 
"  Why,  you  haven't  spoken  to  me,  yet." 

11  Oh!  you  come,  too,"  Chris  said.  "  I'll  go  and 
ask  Daddy  if  I  mayn't  sit  up  for  another  half  an 
hour.  Mother's  sure  to  say  *  no,'  becos  of  nurse. 
Come  on." 

Chris's  prophecy  was  promptly  fulfilled.  Cecilia 
indeed,  seemed  to  be  in  a  doubtful  temper,  and  at 
once  put  her  veto  on  a  request  which  she  seemed  to 
have  anticipated  before  it  was  made.  "  It's  Sun- 
day, Christopher,"  she  said,  sharply,  "  and  nurse  is 
sure  to  want  to  get  off  early." 

11  Oh!  we'll  bath  him  and  put  him  to  bed,"  Threl- 
fall  replied.  "  And  nurse  shall  get  an  extra  half- 
an-hour  by  going,  now.  We  don't  get  a  real  live 
builder  in  the  house,  every  day,  do  we,  Chris?  " 

Chris's  face,  however,  did  not  respond  to  his 
father's  delightful  proposal.  He  was  looking  anx- 
iously, timidly  at  his  mother,  awaiting  her  decision. 

11  Do  let  him,  mother,"  Stephen  whispered. 

Cecilia  looked  up  at  him  with  an  immediate  change 
of  expression.  "  We'll  all  come,"  she  said  with  a 
laugh.  "  Shall  we  all  come  and  put  you  to  bed, 
Chris?  "  she  asked,  turning  to  the  child. 

His  face  had  suddenly  cleared  at  her  change  of 
tone,  and  he  made  a  quick  little  run  over  to  her  and 
clasped  her  skirts.  "  You  come,  too,  mummy,"  he 
said. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       211 

Cecilia  bent  down,  lifted  him  in  her  arms  and  car- 
ried him  out  of  the  room.  "  Come  along,  all  of 
you,"  she  said  gayly  as  she  went.  She  carried  him 
all  the  way  up  to  the  second  floor. 

Chris  lay  quite  still  in  her  arms,  wearing  an  ex- 
pression of  perfect  satisfaction. 


In  Chris's  wide,  airy,  linoleum-floored  nursery, 
the  action  resolved  itself  into  an  exhibition  of  build- 
ing conducted  by  Stephen,  with  his  little  half-brother 
in  ecstatic  attendance.  The  others  sat  round  and 
criticized  according  to  their  several  abilities. 

Chris's  bricks  were  many  and  varied,  ranging  from 
a  sackful  of  strong  square  wooden  blocks  to  small 
and  fanciful  designs  in  German  gothic  made  of 
colored  composition. 

"  He's  mad  on  building,  at  present,"  Cecilia  ex- 
plained. "  He  wants  to  stop  every  time  we  pass  a 
place  where  there's  building  going  on,  and  watch." 

u  You  shall  come  and  see  my  building.  It's  ever 
such  a  big  one,"  Stephen  whispered  to  his  vivacious 
assistant. 

"  Oo!  "  murmured  Chris,  a  little  overcome  by  the 
abundance  of  delight  that  was  being  showered  upon 
him. 

The  building  which  bore  a  remote  resemblance  to 
the  technical  schools  at  Leicester,  progressed  rap- 
idly, but  it  was  just  upon  eight  o'clock  before  the  last 
available  piece  of  material  had  been  used  in  the  con- 
struction of  a  superfluous  and  dangerously  unstable 
campanile.  Chris  walked  round  and  round  this  ro- 
coco erection  with  round  eyes  of  wonder. 

"  Now  knock  it  all  down,"   Stephen  suggested. 


2i2       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

He  was  self-conscious  about  his  handiwork  and  not 
at  all  proud  of  it. 

Chris  stared  at  him  in  amazement.  "  Oh!  no!  " 
he  said.  "  I'm  going  to  leave  it  here  all  night,  so 
as  I  can  see  it  again  first  thing  when  I  get  up  to- 
morrow morning.  Will  you  tell  nurse,  daddy  that 
she  mustn't  knock  it  down.  She  will,  if  you  don't 
tell  her." 

Threlfall  promisee}.. 

11  You  won't  forget,"  Chris  insisted.  "  You  know 
you  do  forget  things  sometimes." 

11  I'm  afraid  I  do,"  his  father  admitted,  "  but  I 
won't  forget  this." 

"  And,  now,  Chris,"  Cecilia  put  in,  "  you  must 
really  go  to  bed  at  once.  Who  do  you  want  to  bath 
you?     We  can't  all  do  it,  you  know." 

Until  then,  it  had  been  almost  inconceivable  to 
Stephen  that  the  child  could  ever  be  naughty.  He 
had  appeared  to  be  everything  that  was  docile  and 
charming;  and  Stephen  had  found  himself  wondering 
what  his  mother  could  possibly  have  meant  by  her 
hints  of  Chris's  ill-temper  and  unruliness.  But  at 
this  question  as  to  whom  he  should  choose  to  bath 
him,  the  child  showed  a  new  side  to  himself.  His 
expression  became  sly  and  cunning,  he  looked  out  of 
the  corners  of  his  eyes,  and  began  to  strut  jauntily 
round  the  circle  of  candidates,  as  if  rejoicing  in  the 
exercise  of  his  power.  He  was  playing  a  game,  but 
he  seemed  to  be  playing  it  with  deliberate  cruelty. 

His  father  was  the  first  to  offer  himself,  "  Come 
along,  old  boy.  I  promise  to  do  it,"  he  said,  holding 
out  his  hands. 

Chris  rejected  that  offer  with  an  insulting  non- 
chalance.    u  I  can  have  you  any  night,"  he  said. 

Threlfall  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed,  but 
he  did  not  completely  disguise  his  chagrin. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       213 

"  Let  me  bath  you,  then,  darling,"  Margaret  put 
in  quickly. 

Chris  halted  before  her  for  a  moment,  with  his 
hands  on  his  hips,  then  passed  her  by  with  a  roguish 
chuckle. 

"  Come,  dear,  if  you  don't  make  up  your  mind 
soon,  I  shall  have  to  send  Anna  up  to  put  you  to 
bed,"  Cecilia  said. 

Chris  looked  at  her  slyly.  "  I  won't  have  Anna," 
he  said. 

"Well,  then  will  you  have  me?"  his  mother 
asked. 

Chris  eyed  her  thoughtfully,  with  an  effect  of 
subtle  calculation. 

"  I'll  have  .  .  ."  he  said.  "  I'll  have  .  .  .  I'll 
have  Stephen."  But  he  kept  his  gaze  fixed  on  his 
mother,  as  he  spoke. 

"  Nonsense,  dear,  Stephen  can't  bath  you,"  Ce- 
cilia returned.  "  He  has  never  bathed  any  one  in  his 
life." 

"  I  don't  mind  trying,"  Stephen  murmured,  but 
his  voice  was  drowned  in  Chris's  sudden  protest. 

"  I  will  have  Stephen,"  he  shouted  defiantly,  "  I 
will.     I  will" 

Cecilia  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  looked  across 
at  Threlfall.  Her  expression  said  plainly  enough: 
"  Well,  is  he  to  have  his  own  way  or  not?  " 

"Oh!  Lord,  you  must  settle  it,"  Threlfall  said 
and  got  up  and  left  the  room. 

"  Poor  Christopher !  He  can't  stand  a  row,"  Ce- 
cilia apologized. 

"  Why  not  let  me  try?  "  Stephen  volunteered. 
"  You  could  superintend,  you  know." 

"  No.  No.  I  want  you  all  by  yourself,"  Chris 
proclaimed. 

That  last  piece  of  self-assertion  decided  Cecilia. 


2i4       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

She  had  evidently  been  willing  to  make  some  con- 
cession, if  only,  it  may  be,  in  recognition  of  Chris's 
appeal  to  her  in  the  drawing-room  and  their  moment 
of  love  and  sympathy  on  the  stairs.  But,  now,  he 
was  defying  her,  vaunting  his  independence,  telling 
her  in  so  many  words  that  she  did  not  hold  the  first 
place  in  his  affections. 

She  got  up  with  a  quick  determined  movement, 
and  Chris,  anticipating  her  intention,  dodged  in- 
stantly behind  Stephen's  building.  Cecilia,  follow- 
ing him  up,  flicked  the  unstable  campanile  with  her 
skirts  and  brought  it  down  with  a  rattling  crash. 

Chris  turned  for  an  instant  to  this  awful  disaster, 
with  the  tremulous  mouth  of  a  child  on  the  verge  of 
tears;  then  he  faced  his  mother,  in  a  white  heat  of 
anger. 

1  You  did  it  on  purpose,"  he  challenged  her. 

Cecilia  had  paused  instinctively  when  the  tower 
fell,  but  she  had  not  relinquished  her  original  pur- 
pose. "  No,  dear,  I  didn't.  It  was  quite  an  acci- 
dent," she  said  coldly.  "  Now  come  along  at  once, 
without  any  more  fuss." 

And  to  Stephen's  surprise,  Chris  quietly  submitted. 
He  allowed  Cecilia  to  take  his  hand  and  lead  him 
away  without  another  word.  Yet  as  the  two  left  the 
nursery  they  seemed  to  express  by  their  very  move- 
ments, a  cold  and  bitter  hatred  of  each  other. 

H  It'll  be  all  right,  Chris,';  Stephen  called  after  him. 
'  I'll  have  it  all  built  up  again  before  you  come  back." 

Chris  did  not  respond  to  this  promise,  but  Stephen 
set  to  work  at  once  to  reconstruct  his  tower  on  a 
firmer  foundation.  He  worked  for  the  first  two  or 
three  minutes  to  the  accompaniment  of  Miss  Cran- 
tock's  analysis  of  the  situation. 

She  seemed  to  be  primarily  addressing  Grace 
Weatherley,  a  fair,  tall  girl  with  an  intellectual  face 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       215 

She  was  two  years  younger  than  Margaret  and  sup- 
posed to  be  unusually  clever. 

"  Dear  Cecilia  can't  stand  opposition,"  Miss  Cran- 
tock  was  saying,  "  and  she  and  Chris  are  altogether 
too  much  alike  to  get  on  together.  They  clash, 
they're  bound  to  clash.  They  love  each  other  to 
distraction  one  minute  and  hate  each  other  the  next." 

u  He's  always  so  good  with  me,"  Margaret's  voice 
gently  protested. 

^  "  Of  course,  he'll  be  good  with  any  one  who'll  give 
him  their  whole  attention  and  admiration,"  Miss 
Crantock's  firm  voice  continued.  "  And  when  it's 
just  a  question  of  entertaining  him,  it's  all  easy 
enough.  But  there  must  inevitably  be  occasions,  like 
this  one,  when  you  can't  be  content  to  consult  a 
child's  inclination.  .   .   ." 

Stephen,  patiently  re-building  his  tower,  thought 
that  Miss  Crantock  was  very  much  inclined  to  put 
everything  in  the  plainest  possible  terms.  She 
wanted  to  get  all  the  material  of  life  sharp  and 
clear,  ready  for  immediate  translation  to  the  stage. 
But  he  knew  Cecilia  better  than  Miss  Crantock  ever 
could,  and  he  knew  that  the  scene  he  had  just  wit- 
nessed had  its  origin  in  experiences  and  emotions  of 
which  Miss  Crantock  was  completely  ignorant.  He 
was  so  deep  in  his  thought  of  the  past,  and  of  the 
differences  between  himself  as  a  boy  and  this  deli- 
cately poised,  too  closely  bred  child  of  his  mother's 
middle  age,  that  he  was  startled  when  he  heard  a 
soft  voice  at  his  elbow,  saying,  "  I  suppose  you 
wouldn't  let  me  help  you?" 

"  Oh !  It's  getting  on  all  right,  thanks,"  he  replied 
gruffly. 

He  was  pleased  to  find  that  he  had  been  able,  if 
only  for  three  or  four  minutes,  to  forget  Margaret 
while  she  was  actually  in  the  same  room  with  him. 


216       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

His  pride  in  that  achievement,  however,  was  short 
lived.  Margaret,  no  doubt,  had  been  aware  of  his 
distraction,  and  having  tasted  the  delights  of  danger 
downstairs,  was  not  ready  to  relinquish  them  too  soon. 

She  sat  down  beside  him  on  the  floor  and  watched 
his  deft,  steady  movements.  She  felt  quite  safe  un- 
der the  keen,  analytical  eye  of  Miss  Crantock. 

"  You  really  do  do  it  awfully  well,"  she  com- 
mented. u  I  suppose  a  knowledge  of  real  building 
does  help?  " 

11 1  suppose  it  does  in  a  way,"  Stephen  admitted. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  your  real  building,"  Marg- 
aret continued  adventurously.     "  Where  is  it?  " 

"  On  the  Embankment,"  Stephen  said,  without 
looking  up  from  his  work.  "  There  isn't  much  of  it, 
yet.  Just  a  big  hole  in  the  ground  and  a  very  tall 
crane." 

"  One  of  those  things  on  three  gigantic  legs,  like 
Mr.  Wells's  Martians?"  Margaret  asked.  "I 
should  love  to  go  to  the  top  of  one  of  those  things. 
Could  I?" 

"  You'd  have  to  be  hauled  up  in  the  bucket," 
Stephen  said.     u  It's  no  joke  the  first  time." 

"  Oh!  but  I  should  love  it,"  JVlargaret  protested. 
"  Would  you  really  take  me  one  day?  " 

Stephen  saw  a  vivid  picture  of  himself  and  Mar- 
garetin  that  bucket,  momentarily  alone  together  in 
mid-air.  He  paused  in  the  act  of  adjusting  the  finial 
to  his  reerected  tower.  His  hand  was  trembling 
and  he  was  afraid  to  expose  his  weakness. 

"  Let  me  do  it,"  Margaret  said.  "  Isn't  it  quite 
in  the  middle  ?  " 

"Oh!  it'll  do  all  right,  thanks."  Stephen  stood 
up  as  he  spoke.  "  He  ought  to  be  back  in  a  minute, 
oughtn't  he?  "  he  added. 

u  Chris?     Yes,  I  should  think  so,"  Margaret  re- 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       217 

plied,  still  kneeling  before  the  tower.  "  But  you 
haven't  said  yet  whether  you'll  take  me  up  to  the  top 
of  your  crane." 

"  If  you'd  really  like  to  go,  I  will,"  Stephen 
mumbled. 

"  When  is  the  best  time  to  come?  "  she  asked. 

"Oh!  any  time.  Not  between  twelve  and  one. 
And  I'm  sometimes  out  in  the  afternoon,"  he  said. 

She  was  trying  to  make  him  look  at  her,  but  he 
kept  his  gaze  steadily  on  the  finial  of  his  own  tower. 
What  he  saw  was  the  great  bucket  of  the  derrick 
hovering  between  earth  and  sky.  Could  he  ask  Ben- 
nett to  take  her  up? 

"  Any  particular  day?  "  she  persisted. 

"  I'm  there  every  day,"  he  said.  "  We  knock  off 
at  twelve  o'clock  on  Saturdays." 

"  You're  quite  sure  it  won't  be  a  bother?  " 

11  Quite  sure." 

Margaret  was  probably  not  at  the  end  of  her  ques- 
tions even  then,  but  Chris's  return  in  his  dressing- 
gown  relieved  Stephen  from  further  agony.  He 
wanted  passionately  to  look  at  her  and  dared  not. 
He  believed  that  if  he  looked,  he  must  inevitably  be- 
tray himself.  He  was  so  poignantly  aware  of  her 
that  he  felt  as  if  his  glance  would  convey  the  inti- 
macy of  an  actual  contact.  He  turned  with  a  feeling 
of  positive  relief  to  greet  his  little  brother. 
I've  built  it  stronger  this  time,"  he  said. 

Chris,  however,  gave  no  manifestation  of  de- 
light at  the  appearance  of  the  reerected  campa- 
nile. "  Thank  you,"  he  said  demurely.  "  It  looks 
stronger.  Will  you  tell  father  not  to  forget  about 
telling  nurse.     I'm  going  to  bed,  now." 

He  said  good-night,  still  with  the  same  demure 
pre-occupied  manner  to  the  three  women,  and  not 
even  the  attempted  blandishment  of  Margaret  could 


218       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

arouse  him  to  any  response.  But  when  that  duty 
was  done,  he  returned  to  Stephen  and  said  with  a 
faint  flicker  of  excitement,  Would  you  like  to 
come  and  put  me  to  bed  and  tell  me  a  story? 
Mother  said  I  might  ask  you." 

Stephen  agreed  willingly.  He  had  a  queer  feeling 
of  pity  for  Chris,  the  kind  of  feeling  he  might  have 
had  for  some  one  who  had  been  hopelessly  disap- 
pointed in  love.     And  he  wanted  to  comfort  him. 

"  I'm  jealous,  Chris,"  Margaret  said. 

Chris  smiled  tepidly  as  if  she  had  made  a  rather 
poor  joke. 

As  Stephen  was  led  out  of  the  nursery  he  heard 
Miss  Crantock  saying,  u  You  see,  he  meant  to  get  his 
own  way,  somehow,  and  he  got  it." 

Chris  heard,  too,  and  looked  up  with  suddenly 
bright  eyes  at  Stephen.  M  I  did,  didn't  I?  "  he  said 
triumphantly. 

Stephen  found  something  a  little  uncanny  in  the 
deliberate  plotting  by  a  child  of  six. 

The  story-telling,  however,  proved  a  great  suc- 
cess, and  Stephen  was  late  for  supper. 


Old  Edwardes  appeared  at  supper.  He  had  ex- 
cused himself  from  the  "  At  Home  "  on  the  ground 
that  he  was  getting  too  old  for  a  crowd.  And  after 
they  went  up  into  the  drawing-room,  he  and  Stephen 
drifted  into  a  corner  together  and  remained  there  for 
the  greater  part  of  the  evening.  They  had  a  com- 
mon impulse  to  isolate  themselves;  the  old  man  be- 
cause he  found  that  society  tired  him,  the  young  one 
because  he  only  dared  to  look  at  Margaret  from  a 
safe  distance. 

Cecilia  made  no  attempt  to  entice  them  out  of 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       219 

their  seclusion  but  now  and  again  she  glanced  in  their 
direction  and  favored  them  with  a  tplerant  smile. 
Stephen  was  glad  that  she  should  not  interfere  with 
him,  equally  glad  that  she  did  not  resent  his  with- 
drawal. Nevertheless  he  wondered  if  she  had  any 
particular  motive  in  permitting  it.  He  was,  he 
found,  unusually  alert  in  his  observation  of  her 
moods.  He  had  a  sense  of  having  behaved  badly  to 
her ;  and  he  was  sure  that  she  would  not  approve  of 
that  appointment  with  Margaret  at  the  works. 

Presently  Threlfall  went  to  the  piano  and  began 
to  play  some  new  music  he  had  just  discovered,  and 
afterwards  Margaret  sang.  She  had  a  pleasant 
voice,  with  a  limited  compass  and  not  much  power, 
but  very  true  and  sweet. 

And  while  she  was  singing  Stephen  completely  sur- 
rendered himself,  although  the  very  completeness  of 
his  surrender  put  her  further  away  from  him  than 
ever.  He  yielded  himself  with  sorrow  and  a  sense 
of  final  abandonment;  approaching  the  idea  of  love 
with  the  certainty  that  for  him  it  must  mean  immola- 
tion. Yet  there  were  moments  in  which  the  thought 
of  absolute  sacrifice  presented  itself  as  a  solution  of 
all  difficulties.  He  pictured  for  himself  a  lifetime  of 
devotion  seeking  for  no  return.  He  saw  her  married 
to  some  unrealized  husband,  the  mother  of  children, 
and  himself  silently,  distantly  adoring  her  as  the 
perfect  ideal,  cherishing  her  image  in  his  outer  soli- 
tude. That  solution  was,  indeed,  an  infinitely  sad 
one  but  was  at  least  free  from  bitterness  or  frustra- 
tion; and  the  sadness  had  a  quality  of  ecstasy.  In 
imagination  he  resisted  with  consummate  ease  the 
most  urgent  temptation  to  lure  him  from  his  ascetic 
worship. 

All  the  shape  of  that  fantasy  was  due,  no  doubt, 
to  the  influence  of  the  music,  but  the  effect  of  it  per- 


220       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

sisted  and  calmed  him  until  the  end  of  the  evening. 
Old  Edwardes  was  nodding,  and  Stephen  was  not 
called  upon  to  shatter  the  delicate  texture  of  his 
dream  by  making  conversation.  The  mood,  indeed, 
might  have  lasted  until  he  met  Margaret  again,  had 
it  not  been  that  another  human  being  intruded  vio- 
lently into  his  field  of  vision  and  destroyed  the  pat- 
tern of  his  thought. 

The  car  had  come  for  Margaret  and  her  sister; 
they  had  said  good-by, —  Margaret  with  a  brief 
parting  reminder  to  Stephen,  concerning  her  visit  to 
the  works  —  and  gone  out  of  the  room,  when  Cecilia 
suddenly  snatched  a  piece  of  music  from  the  piano, 
and  said  to  Stephen, 

14  Oh!  take  this  down  to  them,  dear;  I  promised 
they  should  have  it.  Make  haste ;  they  haven't  gone, 
we  should  have  heard  the  car  start." 

And  not  until  Stephen  saw  the  grouping  of  Mar- 
garet and  Threlfall  in  the  hall  did  he  realize  that 
the  latter  had  left  the  drawing-room. 

In  itself,  their  attitude  was  not  compromising,  and 
they  did  not  move  apart  when  Stephen  came  into 
view  at  the  bend  of  the  stairs.  But  the  sight  of 
them  standing  there  so  close  together,  instantly  pre- 
sented to  him  a  new  and  brilliantly  illuminating 
aspect  of  the  whole  situation  so  far  as  his  mother 
was  concerned.  It  was  incredible  that  Threlfall 
could  be  making  love  to  Margaret,  yet  incredible  as 
it  was,  Stephen  accepted  it  from  that  moment  as  a 
fact.  He  remembered  Cecilia's  tone  and  expression 
as  she  had  appealed  to  her  husband's  judgment  in 
the  question  of  Margaret's  beauty.  He  remembered 
Threlfall's  slightly  embarrassed  reply.  He  found 
an  explanation  of  Cecilia's  action  in  sending  him 
down  with  the  probably  unnecessary  song. 

And  in  one  swift  moment  of  realization  Stephen 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       221 

knew  that  he  hated  Threlfall,  had  always  hated  him. 
He  had  robbed  him  of  his  mother  seven  years  ago, 
and  now,  once  more,  he  appeared  as  the  thief  and 
the  seducer.  In  that  moment  vanished,  also, 
Stephen's  chaste  resolves,  made  under  the  influence 
of  Margaret's  singing.  He  had  been  willing  then  to 
surrender  the  unattainable  to  some  imaginary  lover, 
but  he  found  himself  passionately  unwilling  to 
surrender  her  to  Christopher  Threlfall.  In  that 
violent  reaction,  Stephen  may  still  have  seen  him- 
self in  the  character  of  the  impersonal  deliverer, 
but  he  was  quite  definitely  resolved  that  he  would 
save  her. 

Something  of  that  resolve  must  have  been  visible 
in  his  face  and  manner  as  he  came  quietly  down  the 
stairs,  for  Threlfall  turned  to  him  with  an  impatient 
frown. 

"  Hallo !  Stephen,"  he  said.  "  Are  you  going,  al- 
ready? " 

"  No,  my  mother  sent  me  down  with  this  song  for 
Miss  Weatherley,"  Stephen  replied,  his  voice  and 
expression  unconsciously  mimicking  his  rival's. 

"  Song?  "  queried  Margaret  sweetly. 

11  She  said  she  had  promised  it  to  you,"  Stephen 
explained. 

"  Oh!  thanks  so  much,"  Margaret  said,  accepting 
the  proffered  score  and  leaving  it  delightfully  un- 
certain whether  or  not  she  had  remembered  the 
promise  in  question. 

Threlfall  was  leaning  against  the  hall  table. 
"  That's  all  right,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  dismissal. 

Stephen,  however,  refused  to  go;  though  he  had, 
obviously,  nothing  further  to  say. 

"  I'll  come  out  to  the  car  with  you,"  Threlfall 
said  to  Margaret. 

She  had  so  far  worn  an  air  of  hesitation,  as  if  she 


222       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

realized  the  true  meaning  of  this  potentially  dramatic 
situation,  but  was  unable  to  make  any  personal  de- 
cision. And  when  Threlfall  spoke  she  seemed  to  run 
away  from  this  demand  for  exercising  and  displaying 
her  choice  rather  than  from  either  of  the  two  men 
who  were  soliciting  her  favor. 

11  Oh !  no,  please  don't,"  she  said,  breathlessly;  and 
she  had  slipped  out  of  the  hall  door  and  closed  it 
something  too  definitely  behind  her,  before  Threlfall 
could  protest.  It  would  have  been  undignified  to 
follow  her,  and  he  had  not  the  temperament  that  can 
forget  appearances.  He  proved  that  by  his  imme- 
diate treatment  of  Stephen. 

"Coming  upstairs  again?"  he  asked  with  a 
smile  that  dismissed  the  short  scene  in  the  hall,  as 
the  most  trivial  of  incidents. 

Stephen  had  not  the  same  powers  of  recovery. 
11  I  don't  know,"  he  said  sulkily.  u  I  haven't  said 
good-night." 

"  Come  along,  then,"  Threlfall  replied,  almost 
gayly,  and  led  the  way  upstairs. 

Stephen  followed  him  with  a  feeling  of  having 
been  ingeniously  thwarted. 

5 

As  he  walked  home  to  Camberwell,  he  tried  to 
get  everything  quite  clear  in  his  mind  in  the  light  of 
the  recent  revelation.  He  found,  however,  that 
nothing  was  clear  except  the  certainty  that  he  must 
save  both  Margaret  and  Cecilia  from  the  disaster  of 
Threlfall's  furtive,  and,  as  Stephen  saw  it,  quite 
dastardly  amorousness.  The  thought  of  that  made 
him  furious.  He  could  not  compare  it  with  the  now 
forgiven  infidelity  of  Cecilia  seven  years  earlier.  He 
saw  this  threatened  treachery  of  Threlfall's  as  some 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       223 

kind  of  absolute;  a  veritable  sin  against  the  Holy 
Ghost.  His  mind  swayed  vehemently  between  his 
condemnations  of  the  infidelity  to  Cecilia  and  the 
threat  to  Margaret.  And  each  of  these  aspects 
aggravated  the  wickedness  of  the  other.  He  was 
so  sure  of  the  rectitude  of  his  judgment,  that  it  never 
occurred  to  him  that  he  might  be  jealous. 


VI 


STEPHEN  had  to  endure  more  than  two  days' 
inactivity  before  he  was  granted  any  oppor- 
tunity to  begin  his  active  interference  with  the  base 
schemes  of  his  step-father.  Mr.  Dickinson  had 
come  up  to  town  on  Monday  morning  and  he  kept 
Stephen  even  more  busy  than  usual  until  late  on 
Tuesday  evening. 

He  had  had  a  qualm  of  uneasiness  when  his  em- 
ployer appeared  unexpectedly  at  the  Embankment 
works.  His  first  thought  had  been  of  the  possibility 
of  Margaret's  visit  that  same  morning,  and  he  had 
had  something  of  the  feeling  of  a  schoolboy  in  fear 
of  disgrace.  Afterwards,  as  he  and  James  Dickin- 
son went  over  the  building,  he  had  realized  the  ab- 
surdity of  his  fear.  If  she  came,  it  would  not  mat- 
ter. There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  invite 
people  to  see  the  works,  especially  such  appropriate 
and  probable  people  as  the  Weatherleys.  Neverthe- 
less he  hoped  that  Margaret  would  not  come  while 
Mr.  Dickinson  was  there. 

Stephen  was  down  in  the  basement  on  Wednesday 
morning  when  Bennett  came  to  inform  him  that  there 
was  "  a  young  lady  in  the  orfice  asking  after  him." 
Bennett's  manner  simply  bristled  with  tact  as  he 
made  the  announcement.  He  might  have  been 
warning  Stephen  that  there  was  a  warrant  out 
against  him. 

224 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       225 

"What  had  I  better  say,  Mr.  Kirkwood?"  he 
asked,  as  if  he  were  quite  willing  to  abet  Stephen's 
escape,  if  necessary. 

"  Is  it  Miss  Weatherley,  do  you  know?  "  Stephen 
said,  as  coolly  as  he  could.  Now  that  his  hour  had 
come  he  would  willingly  have  postponed  it. 

"  She  didn't  give  no  name,"  replied  the  conspira- 
torial Bennett.  "  She's  a  very  good-looking  young 
lady  with  dark  eyes,  and  she  just  came  in  and  arst 
for  you." 

11  All  right.  I'll  come  up,"  Stephen  said,  and 
added  by  way  of  self-defense,  "  It's  Miss  Weather- 
ley,  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Weatherley  who  used  to 
be  at  the  King's  School.  I  —  I  met  her  the  other 
day  and  she  wants  to  go  up  in  the  crane  to  see  the 
view.     I  suppose  I  can  take  her  up  in  the  bucket?  " 

Bennett  rubbed  his  chin,  looking  rather  shocked. 
11  We  been  loadin'  joists,  all  the  mornin',"  he  said 
thoughtfully.  "  P'raps  I'd  better  'ave  the  bucket 
rubbed  round.  You  don't  think  as  she'll  be  fright- 
ened, Mr.  Kirkwood?  " 

Stephen  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  pretense  of 
indifference.  "  I'll  come  up,"  he  repeated.  "  Yes, 
you  might  see  that  the  bucket's  fairly  clean,  will 
you?" 

As  he  climbed  up  from  the  basement,  he  realized 
that  his  mistake  had  been  in  promising  to  take  Mar- 
garet on  the  crane.  This  was  why  he  had  had  that 
sense  of  wrong-doing  under  the  eye  of  Mr.  Dickin- 
son. It  was  perfectly  reasonable  and  right  to  take 
occasional  visitors  over  the  works,  but  this  other  af- 
fair was  just  a  lark,  and  the  men  could  only  regard 
it  as  such. 

Stephen  entered  the  office  with  a  stern  determina- 
tion to  dissuade  Margaret  from  the  adventure. 

She  greeted  him  with  a   touch  of  nervousness. 


226       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"  I've  come,  you  see,  Mr.  Kirkwood,"  she  said,  of- 
fering him  her  hand.  "  I  hope  I  haven't  chosen  a 
bad  time?     Am  I  a  nuisance?  " 

He  was  glad  that  she  was  wearing  gloves.  He 
had  come  straight  into  the  office  from  climbing  a 
thirty-foot  ladder,  and  he  knew  that  his  own  hands 
were  soiled  and  gritty.  "  Oh !  no,  it's  quite  a  good 
time,"  he  said,  "but  I'm  afraid  there's  nothing  much 
to  see,  yet."  He  had  a  wild  hope  that  if  he  made  no 
reference  to  the  crane,  she  might  be  glad  of  an 
excuse  to  postpone  her  adventure. 

Her  answer  left  him  in  no  doubt  about  her  atti- 
tude towards  that  side  of  the  entertainment. 

"  Well,  I  didn't  really  come  to  see  anything  to- 
day, did  I  ?  "  she  returned.  "  Unless  it  was  the  view 
of  London.  You  promised  to  take  me  up  to  the  top 
of  nowhere  in  a  bucket,  didn't  you?  I  don't  know 
why  it  should  sound  so  much  more  prosaic  than  a 
broomstick,  but  it  does." 

Stephen  frowned.  "  You're  quite  sure  you  want 
to?  "  he  asked. 

"Quite  sure,"  she  affirmed  confidently,  although 
she  was  unquestionably  nervous  and  excited.  I 
mean  to  go  up  in  an  aeroplane,  the  first  chance  I  get, 
so  this  will  be  a  kind  of  preparation." 

Still  Stephen  hesitated.  He  wished,  now,  that  he 
had  entered  into  a  league  with  Bennett.  He  might 
so  >easily  have  arranged  to  receive  a  message  that 
the  crane  was  out  of  order  or  something.  But  even 
as  the  thought  crossed  his  mind,  he  saw  through  the 
open  door,  the  great  shape  of  the  bucket  drawing  up 
from  the  basement,  lifting  and  threading  its  way  with 
a  deliberate  and  solemn  certainty  towards  the  plat- 
form in  front  of  the  office. 

Margaret  caught  the  direction  of  his  glance,  and 
joined  him  by  the  door.     "  Is  this  it,  coming?  "  she 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       227 

asked  with  a  little  break  in  her  voice,  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm  as  if  for  support. 

"  There's  no  earthly  reason  why  you  should  go, 
if  you'd  sooner  not,"  Stephen  said.  But  he  had 
changed  his  mind  again.  He  wanted  now  to  go  up 
with  her  in  that  great  iron  receptacle  which  was  al- 
ready almost  at  their  feet;  he  wanted  to  be  if  only 
for  so  short  a  space  of  time,  her  support  and  pro- 
tector. He  did  not  care  what  the  workmen  thought 
or  said. 

"  No,  no,  I  wouldn't  sooner  not,"  she  protested 
eagerly.     "  You  will  take  me,  won't  you?  " 

He  nodded  quickly.  "  All  right,  wait  one  mo- 
ment," he  said.  "  I'll  just  get  one  of  the  office 
chairs  for  you  to  get  down  by,  and,  I  say,  do  you  want 
to  go  as  high  as  we  can?  " 

Please,"  she  said  breathlessly. 

"  Very  well,  I'll  just  tell  the  engineer,"  Stephen 
replied  with  the  same  effect  of  haste.  "  We've  got 
a  telephone  up  to  him  from  the  office." 

He  returned  in  a  few  seconds,  carrying  the  chair. 
The  bucket  had  paused  with  its  upper  edge  some 
couple  of  feet  higher  than  the  platform  in  front  of 
the  office  and  now  hung,  slowly  swaying  and  turn- 
ing with  an  appearance  of  vast  and  turgid  deliber- 
ation. 

Stephen  lowered  his  chair  into  it.  "  Just  for  you 
to  climb  down  by,"  he  explained,  "  and  it'll  be  use- 
ful to  stand  on  when  you  want  to  get  the  view. 
You'll  hardly  be  able  to  see  over  the  edge  when 
you're  standing  on  the  bottom  of  the  thing." 

Margaret  looked  up  at  the  great  jib  of  the  crane 
that  now  hung  almost  horizontally,  above  them. 
The  wire  rope  seemed  to  dwindle  into  a  mere  thread 
before  it  reached  that  distantly  supporting  beam. 
And  far  away  on  the  top  of  the  staging  she  could 


228        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

just  discern  the  tiny  figure  of  the  watching  engineer 
to  whom  she  was  about  to  entrust  her  destiny. 
Then  as  the  contrivance  slowly  turned  past  her  she 
boldly  laid  her  hand  on  the  sloping  chain  of  the 
suspending  apparatus,  stepped  up  on  to  the  iron  rim 
before  her  and  climbed  lightly  down,  first  on  to  the 
chair  and  thence  to  the  bottom  of  the  bucket. 

"  All  right,"  Stephen  shouted  up  to  the  stag- 
ing, and  putting  his  hand  on  the  edge  of  the 
bucket  vaulted  in  beside  her  with  a  single  move- 
ment. 

Far  away  in  the  sky  she  heard  the  racket  of  the 
engine  that  was  taking  her  away  from  earth,  and 
looking  up  she  could  see  the  staging  slowly  falling 
down  to  her,  and  the  raw  heads  of  the  processional 
steel  stanchions,  dipping  below  the  limits  of  her  small 
horizon. 

"  We're  swinging  a  bit,  not  much,"  said  the  quiet 
voice  of  her  companion.  "  We  shall  steady  up  as  we 
go  higher  and  the  cable  gets  shorter." 

"  How  high  are  we  going?  "  Margaret  asked. 
She  had  had  a  moment  of  intense  trepidation  as  they 
started,  but  now  all  sense  of  fear  had  left  her. 
She  found  herself  suddenly  lifted  out  of  the  world 
and  utterly  alone  as  it  seemed  with  this  quiet  com- 
manding man  who  had  authority  over  a  whole  army 
of  workmen.  It  was  certainly  a  great  adventure, 
but  it  no  longer  seemed  to  her  dangerous.  The 
clatter  of  the  engine  had  come  nearer,  but  now  she 
could  see  nothing  above  her  but  a  rapidly  shortening 
length  of  cable,  and  the  great  arm  of  the  derrick 
that  had  an  effect  of  peering  down  at  them,  in- 
quisitively. 

"  Well,  as  high  as  we  can  get,"  Stephen  said. 
"  When  we've  run  up  as  near  as  we  can  to  the  pulley, 
the  man  will  raise  the  jib  till  it's  nearly  upright. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       229 

When  we  stop,  you  can  get  up  on  the  chair  and  look 
over." 

Margaret  smiled  at  him  with  a  charming  air  of 
companionship.  "  Ripping  of  you  to  let  me  come !  " 
she  said. 

Stephen  hastily  diverted  the  conversation  from 
that  topic.  He  could  not  tell  her  that  he  was  will- 
ing to  risk  his  situation  or  his  life  to  gratify  her 
whim;  and  nothing  less  than  that  statement  could 
adequately  express  him. 

"  We're  up  to  the  pulley,"  he  said  awkwardly. 
"  Now  the  jib  will  begin  to  rise." 

As  he  spoke,  the  new  movement  began,  and  it 
seemed  to  Margaret  that  she  and  the  bucket  and  that 
inquisitive  nose  of  the  derrick  were  all  going  straight 
up  into  the  sky  together,  while  the  crane's  great 
arm  was  slowly  following,  dipping  and  approaching 
them. 

"  How  big  it  is,"  she  commented,  observing  this 
approach.  And  it  looks  such  a  delicate  thing  from 
below." 

Stephen  nodded  and  glanced  with  a  touch  of 
anxiety  at  the  now  almost  vertical  jib.  They  were 
high  enough.  If  they  went  any  further  the  bucket 
would  begin  to  tip.  He  hoped  the  engineer  was  not 
going  to  play  any  of  his  larks.  You  never  knew  with 
these  chaps.  He  would  not  have  cared  for  him- 
self. They  had  tried  these  tricks  on  him  before,  and 
had  never  yet  succeeded  in  scaring  him.  But  it  was 
a  different  matter  with  Margaret.  He  must  call 
down  and  tell  him  to  stop.  Without  a  second 
thought,  he  laid  hold  of  the  rim  of  the  bucket  and 
pulled  himself  with  a  quick  easy  lift  to  a  sitting  pos- 
ture on  the  edge. 

The  engineer,  however,  was  not  up  to  any  of  his 
larks  and  his  engine  had  already  stopped. 


230       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"  It's  all  right,  now,"  Stephen  said,  looking  down 
at  Margaret.  "  Do  you  feel  like  standing  up  on  the 
chair  and  looking  round?  " 

He  was  surprised  to  see  that  all  the  color  had 
gone  from  her  face. 

11  You're  not  frightened?  "  he  asked.  "  Do  you 
want  to  go  down  again?  " 

"  No,  no.  I'm  all  right,"  she  said.  "  I'll  climb 
up.  You  gave  me  such  a  shock  when  you  jumped 
up  on  to  the  edge  like  that.  I  —  I  thought  you  were 
going  over.  Do  be  careful.  Is  it  safe  to  sit 
there?" 

Stephen  smiled  reassuringly.  Until  she  had  put 
this  question,  he  had  not  thought  of  "  showing  off." 
Now,  he  became  conscious  that  his  complete  disre- 
gard of  heights  might  assume,  in  her  eyes,  an  aspect 
of  courage. 

11  Oh !  this  is  safe  enough,"  he  said.  "  I've  never 
been  giddy  yet.  You  have  to  get  used  to  heights  in 
this  trade." 

But  Margaret  still  hesitated  to  climb  up  on  to  the 
chair.  The  sight  of  him  there  poised  on  the  rim  of 
the  bucket  gave  her  a  feeling  of  insecurity. 

11  It's  awfully  silly  of  me,"  she  apologized.  "  But 
would  you  mind  holding  on  to  that  chain?  " 

He  obeyed  her  at  once,  and  if  she  had  needed  any 
further  confirmation  of  his  perfect  indifference  to 
fear,  she  would  have  found  it  in  this  instant  com- 
pliance with  her  wish.  The  braggart  would  have 
refused,  doubting  his  own  courage  and  seeking  fur- 
ther opportunity  to  prove  it. 

Margaret  caught  her  breath  with  a  little  gasp 
when  she  took  her  first  sight  of  the  world  she  had 
left  below  her.  She  had  not  anticipated  quite  that 
effect  she  received  of  hanging  perilously  over  the 
solid    fabric   of   neighboring   roofs    and    chimneyi. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       231 

The  tall  building  across  the  road  was  near  enough  to 
lead  her  eyes  down  to  the  canon  of  the  narrow  street, 
busy  with  the  traffic  of  tiny  foreshortened  humanity, 
of  unexpectedly  oblong  little  carts  and  bolster-backed 
horses. 

She  lifted  her  head  from  that  scrutiny  and  shut 
her  eyes,  clutching  the  red  rim  of  her  cage  with  both 
hands. 

"  Giddy?  "  Stephen  asked,  anxiously  watching  her. 

"  Just  for  a  minute,"  she  said.  "  I'll  be  all  right 
in  a  moment." 

"  You  can't  fall  out,  you  know,"  he  comforted 
her. 

11  I  know  I  can't,"  she  said,  "  but  I  felt  as  if  I 
simply  must  throw  myself  down.  I'm  getting  better, 
now.     It  is  a  wonderful  view,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Pretty  good,"  he  admitted.  "  But  it's  too  hazy 
to  see  far  to-day.  You  ought  to  come  here  just  be- 
fore rain." 

She  schooled  herself  to  look  about  her,  staring 
down  over  the  trees  on  the  Embankment,  at  the 
dwarfed  profession  of  Blackfriars  Bridge. 

"  We've  got  an  audience,"  her  companion  re- 
marked. 

"  An  audience?"  she  repeated.  She  wished  he 
wouldn't  talk.  She  believed  that  she  could  manage 
quite  well,  if  he  would  leave  her  alone. 

"  Quite  a  crowd  of  people  watching  us  from  the 
Embankment,"  he  said. 

As  he  spoke  he  moved  his  position  to  indicate 
the  crowd  he  had  mentioned;  and  the  iron  receptacle 
which  was  for  the  time  being  Margaret's  only  link 
with  the  solid  earth,  sluggishly  swayed. 

She  gripped  the  rim  of  it  in  a  panic,  and  then  with 
a  slight  feeling  of  sickness  compelled  herself  to  look 
down  at  the  stippling  of  pink  faces  that  stared  up  at 


232       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

her  from  the  remote  background  of  the  distant  pave- 
ment. 

That  feat,  however,  was  the  limit  of  her  endur- 
ance. 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to  go  back,  now,"  she  said 
and  climbed  down  with  a  thankful  sense  of  recovered 
safety  into  the  blindness  afforded  by  the  walls  of  the 
bucket. 

Stephen  still  maintained  his  seat  on  the  rim,  lean- 
ing over,  now,  and  shouting  down  his  instructions  to 
the  engineer. 

Margaret  crouched  in  her  chair  and  kept  her  gaze 
on  the  iron  floor  below  her.  She  was  aware  of  their 
movement,  of  the  creak  of  the  jib,  the  faint  grind  of 
the  cable,  and  a  sense  of  steady  falling,  but  none  of 
these  things  affected  her  so  long  as  she  did  not  look 

She  was  surprised  when  her  cicerone's  voice  hailed 
her  cheerfully  with  the  announcement,  "  Here  we  are. 
Hold  on  a  minute.  We've  got  rather  a  swing  on. 
I'll  try  and  steady  her  before  you  get  out." 

She  looked  up  to  see  him  hanging  fixedly  on  to  one 
of  the  chains  that  connected  bucket  and  cable,  and 
being  dragged  along  the  platform  in  his  effort  to 
counteract  the  slow  swing  of  the  enormous  pendulum. 
Once  or  twice  the  bucket  bumped  against  the  edge  of 
the  platform,  with  the  deep  powerful  thud  of  a 
vessel  against  a  pier. 

"  All  right,  now,"  Stephen  panted.  "  Can  I  help 
you?  " 

She  was  glad  to  take  the  hand  he  held  out,  and 
when  she  had  safely  gained  the  platform  she  grasped 
the  comforting  solidity  of  his  firm  arm.  Her  legs 
were  trembling,  and  the  flooring  under  her  feet 
seemed  to  be  oscillating  with  the  slow  deliberate 
swing  of  that  horrible  bucket. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       233 

"  Come  into  the  office  and  sit  down  for  a  few 
minutes,"  Stephen  said. 


Her  giddiness  passed  almost  immediately  and  gave 
place  to  a  feeling  of  exhilaration. 

"  I'm  tremendously  glad  I  went,"  she  said,  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  the  office  table  and  swinging  her  feet. 
u  It  was  a  great  adventure." 

Stephen  surreptitiously  wiped  his  hands  on  the  in- 
side of  his  coat-pockets.  He  was  still  warm  from 
his  struggle  with  the  pendulum. 

:<  I'm  afraid  it  made  you  a  bit  dizzy,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  it  did,"  she  admitted.  "  But  that's  quite 
gone,  now,  and  I  feel  as  if  I'd  discovered  the  North 
Pole  or  something.  It  isn't  everybody  who  has  been 
up  to  the  very  top  of  a  thing  like  that,  is  it?  I  shall 
boast  about  it  for  weeks." 

"  It's  just  possible,"  he  said,  "  that  you're  the  first 
woman  who  has  ever  done  it.  I've  never  heard  of 
any  other  woman  doing  it,  before." 

"  And  you  think  simply  nothing  of  it,"  she  com- 
mented on  a  note  of  intense  admiration. 

"  Used  to  it,  you  see,"  he  explained. 

"  But  you  weren't  always  used  to  it,"  she  said. 
"  Weren't  you  dizzy,  at  first  —  on  scaffoldings  and 
things?" 

Stephen  searched  his  memory.  "  I  don't  remem- 
ber," he  said.  "  I  suppose  I've  always  had  a  good 
head  for  heights.  I  remember  going  up  the  tower 
of  the  Cathedral  at  Medboro'  when  I  was  about  ten, 
and  sitting  on  the  battlements." 

"  I  suppose  boys  are  different,"  she  concluded;  but 
she  was  thinking  less  of  the  difference  between  the 
sexes  in  this  matter  of  a  "  head  for  heights  "  than  of 


234       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

the  remarkable  difference  between  Stephen  and  all 
the  other  men  she  knew. 

M  Well,  I'm  interrupting  your  work,"  she  con- 
tinued.    "  I  ought  to  be  going,  oughtn't  I  ?  " 

"  It's  all  right,"  Stephen  mumbled.  "  The  men 
have  knocked  off  for  the  dinner  hour.  The  whistle 
went  while  we  were  up  on  the  derrick." 

It  may  have  been  u  all  right  "  as  he  had  said,  but 
Margaret  found  that  she  had  nothing  more  to  say. 
They  had  come  to  the  crisis  of  an  embarrassed  and  as 
it  seemed  a  significant  pause.  It  was  as  if  they  had 
but  just  realized  the  fact  that  they  were  there  and 
talking  to  each  other. 

"  The  dinner-hour?  "  ejaculated  Margaret,  clutch- 
ing at  an  excuse.  "  Then  I  must  be  getting  back  on 
my  own  account  if  not  on  yours.  It  was  frightfully 
good  of  you  to  take  me  up,  Mr.  Kirkwood.  I've 
really  enjoyed  it  immensely,  although  I  was  so  silly 
as  to  get  giddy.  Thank  you  ever  so  much  for  taking 
such  a  lot  of  fcother." 

She  had  got  down  from  the  table  and  was  talking 
herself  out  of  the  office.  Stephen  followed  her 
quietly  to  open  the  door  in  the  hoarding  that  gave  on 
to  the  street.  And  when  she  reached  the  safety  of 
the  busy  pavement  again,  the  courage  that  had  so 
unexpectedly  deserted  her,  returned,  and  prompted 
her  to  say, 

14  Won't  you  come  to  see  us  in  Bryanston  Square 
sometime  ?  I'm  sure  my  father  would  be  glad  if  you 
would.  He's  very  keen  on  talking  to  his  old  pupils. 
We  know  quite  a  lot." 

"  Thanks,  I  should  like  to,"  Stephen  said. 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  smiled  as  she  said 
"  Good-by." 

He  took  her  hand  as  if  it  had  been  made  of  egg- 
shell china. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       235 

She  left  him  confirmed  in  her  opinion  that  he  was 
different  from  any  other  man  she  had  ever  met.  She 
had  been  fully  aware  of  the  provocative  quality  of 
her  smile.  Any  other  man  would,  at  least,  have 
pressed  her  hand. 

Stephen  watched  her  until  she  turned  the  corner 
into  Tudor  Street,  but  she  did  not  look  back.  He 
was  being  very  stern  and  determined  with  himself. 
He  had  no  intention  of  permitting  himself  to  be  en- 
couraged by  her  condescension  in  visiting  the  works, 
or  by  the  thrilling  intimacy  of  her  smile.  He  was 
quite  sure  that  he  was  not  going  to  be  foolish  about 
her.  He  was  in  love  with  her,  of  course.  He  could 
not  deny  that.  But  only  in  the  hopeless,  infatuated 
way,  in  which  a  clerk  might  be  in  love  with  a  society 
beauty  whose  photograph  he  had  seen  in  a  weekly 
paper.  He  meant  to  keep  that  fact  clearly  before 
him ;  and  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  allow  him- 
self to  worship  her  presence  wherever  opportunity 
offered.  He  would,  for  instance,  accept  that  invi- 
tation to  Bryanston  Square. 

A  single  word  of  a  conversation  he  overheard  as 
he  returned  to  the  office,  stiffened  him  still  further  in 
his  determination  to  keep  himself  well  in  hand. 
Gray,  his  junior  clerk,  was  talking  to  Bennett  as 
Stephen  approached,  and  he  caught  the  one  word 
"  sparkler."  He  had  no  doubt  as  to  its  application. 
Every  man  on  the  place  was  probably  discussing  the 
same  subject  at  this  moment;  and  in  their  several 
manners  of  speech  most  of  them  would  attempt  some 
variant  of  Gray's  epithet.  And  it  was  just  this 
aspect  of  her  that  he  must  never  allow  himself  to 
forget.  In  this  even,  dull  world  that  smelt  of  mor- 
tar and  stone  and  rusty  iron,  a  world  that  was  harsh, 
hard  and  sour;  she  —  sparkled.  She  was  rare 
and  exotic,  destined  to  sit  and  rule  in  the  high  select 


236       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

places  of  society.  He  must  before  all  things  re- 
member that :  he  must  never  let  her  imagine  by  any 
word  or  sign  that  he  ever  aspired  to  do  more  than 
adore  her  from  a  respectful  distance.  He  could  do 
that,  and  still  protect  her  from  the  infamies  of  Chris- 
topher Threlfall. 


Stephen  went  to  see  his  mother  the  following 
evening. 

This  was  his  first  visit  since  Sunday  and  he  in- 
ferred from  her  greeting  that  she  considered  her- 
self neglected.  He  decided  to  put  that  matter  right 
at  once. 

11  Mr.  Dickinson  has  been  up  in  town  this  week," 
he  began  as  soon  as  he  had  sat  down.  "  And  I've 
had  a  pretty  thick  time.  He  took  me  out  to  dinner 
on  Monday,  and  on  Tuesday  I  didn't  get  home  till 
after  nine." 

Cecilia  sighed  wearily  and  leaned  back  in  her 
chair.  She  had  received  him  in  her  own  little  sitting- 
room  on  the  second  floor,  and  had  already  confessed 
to  being  tired. 

"And  Wednesday?"  she  asked  carelessly. 

"Well,  I  was  fairly  late  getting  home;  it  was 
after  eight,  and  I  felt  too  fagged  to  go  out  again," 
he  explained. 

"  I  suppose  you  had  a  lot  of  lost  time  to  make 
up,"  she  suggested. 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,"  he  said.  "  Why  lost  time, 
mother?" 

"  Taking  your  visitor  up  on  the  crane,  and  so 
on,"  Cecilia  replied  with  an  air  of  weary  disgust. 

"Oh!  that!  How  did  you  know?"  Stephen 
asked,  attempting  a  smile  and  trying  very  hard  not 
to  be  at  all  embarrassed. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       237 

"  She  was  here,  this  afternoon,"  Cecilia  said. 
"  She  left  a  note  for  you." 

Stephen  instinctively  suppressed  his  desire  to 
clamor  for  an  immediate  sight  of  this  astounding 
treasure. 

"  Oh!  And  she  told  you  all  about  it,  did  she?  " 
he  asked,  with  a  covert  glance  at  the  mantelpiece. 

Cecilia  nodded,  and  put  her  hand  up  to  her  eyes. 
"  The  note  is  over  there  on  my  bureau,"  she  said,  as 
if  the  mere  effort  of  speaking  were  too  much  for 
her.  "  For  Heaven's  sake,  get  it  and  read  it.  I 
shall  never  have  your  attention  until  that's  done 
with,  and  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"I  —  there's  no  hurry  about  the  note,"  Stephen 
returned  stoically;  convinced  in  his  own  mind  that  he 
was  carrying  the  thing  off  very  well.  "  What  do 
you  want  to  talk  to  me  about,  mother?  " 

She  was  still  covering  her  eyes  with  her  right 
hand,  and  waved  her  left  vaguely  in  the  direction  of 
the  bureau,  without  speaking. 

Stephen  pretended  to  accept  the  gesture  as  a  com- 
mand and  got  up  and  went  over  to  the  bureau  with 
an  effect  of  amused  submission  to  her  whim. 

The  note  lay  on  the  blotting  pad,  addressed  in  a 
rather  girlish  hand  to  "  Stephen  Kirkwood  Esq.," 
and  he  hesitated  a  moment  before  he  opened  it.  If 
he  had  been  alone,  he  would  have  hesitated  still 
longer.  He  would  have  liked  to  turn  the  envelope 
over  in  his  hands,  and  gaze  at  it  as  at  some  inestim- 
able treasure,  before  he  violated  its  perfection  by  the 
brutal  strength  of  his  rough  fingers. 

The  contents  of  the  note  were  very  simple,  and  it 
had  apparently  been  written  in  haste.     It  ran: — 

"  Dear  Mr.  Kirkwood: 

"  My  father  tells  me  that  one  of  your  old  school- 


238       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

fellows,  Mr.  Fletton  Hall,  is  coming  to  tea  with  us 
on  Saturday.     Won't  you  come  and  meet  him  ? 
"  Yours  sincerely, 
11  Margaret  Weatherley." 

Stephen  carefully  replaced  the  letter  in  the  en- 
velope and  put  it  in  his  breast  pocket. 

11  There's  a  waste-paper  basket  over  there  if  you 
want  one,"  Cecilia's  voice  said  maliciously. 

"  I'm  keeping  it  for  the  sake  of  the  address," 
Stephen  replied,  although  there  was  no  address  given 
in  Margaret's  note.  Miss  Weatherley  has  asked 
me  to  go  to  tea  there  on  Saturday  to  meet  young 
Hall  —  Fletton  Hall  she  calls  him.  I  suppose  that's 
secundus,  his  initials  were  R.  F." 

He  was  puzzled  by  some  unplaced  association  with 
the  complete  name,  Fletton  Hall;  some  association 
of  recent  date  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  King's 
School. 

Cecilia,  however,  was  not  interested  in  young  Hall. 

"  Shall  you  go?  "  she  asked. 

Stephen  returned  to  the  chair  opposite  his 
mother.  He  was  no  longer  afraid  of  her  possible 
scrutiny.  He  had  a  feeling  of  unexpected  security, 
of  being  able  to  talk  of  Miss  Weatherley  and  her 
invitation  without  embarrassment. 

14  I  expect  so,"  he  said  with  a  nonchalance  that 
displayed  but  the  smallest  hint  of  exaggeration.  "  I 
should  like  to  see  Dr.  Weatherley,  again  —  and 
young  Hall." 

"  And  Margaret?  "  queried  Cecilia. 

"  Oh !  yes,  I  should  like  to  see  her  again,  too,"  he 
admitted  boldly.     "  She's  awfully  pretty,  of  course." 

Cecilia  threw  off  her  air  of  lassitude,  and  sat  up 
in  one  of  her  characteristic  attitudes,  suddenly  alert, 
a  little  strained. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       239 

"  I  suppose  you  realize  what  you're  doing, 
Stephen?"  she  said.  "  You  realize,  I  mean,  that 
there's  no  chance  of  your  marrying  her?  " 

He  had  affirmed  that  fact  to  himself  often  enough, 
but  it  shocked  him  to  hear  it  stated  by  his  mother. 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  he  said  without  conviction. 

"  I'm  not  maligning  her,  you  know,"  Cecilia  went 
on  quickly.  "  I  think  she's  quite  a  nice  little  thing 
in  some  ways,  but  she  has  had  her  head  turned  by 
too  much  admiration.  From  all  kinds  of  men  — 
quite  celebrated  men,  some  of  them." 

11  Yes,"  Stephen  agreed  uncomfortably.  He  was 
thinking  of  his  stepfather,  and  did  not  like  to  look 
up  at  his  mother,  lest  she  should  guess  his  thought. 

"  Christopher  is  quite  silly  about  her,"  Cecilia 
continued,  ruthlessly  thrusting  aside  all  obstacles. 

"  Dr.  Threlfall?  "  Stephen  tried  feebly. 

She  dismissed  that  evasion  with  silent  contempt. 
"  Had  you  guessed  that?  "  she  asked. 

"  Do  you  mean  .  .  .?  "  he  began,  but  she  inter- 
rupted him  impatiently. 

"  There's  no  need  to  quibble,  my  dear  boy,"  she 
said.  "  I'm  not  jealous.  In  fact,  I  should  be  quite 
glad  if  Margaret  would  lead  him  on  a  little.  It 
would  do  him  good  to  find  out  at  the  end  that  she's 
not  in  the  least  in  love  with  him.  For  she  isn't. 
It  may  be  a  dreadful  shock  to  Christopher  when  he 
finds  out,  but  she  thinks  of  him  as  quite  an  old  man. 
She  admires  him,  thinks  him  quite  handsome  no 
doubt,  but  she  would  be  horrified  if  he  really  made 
love  to  her.  .  .  ." 

"  Do  you  believe  she  would?  "  Stephen  put  in 
anxiously. 

"Why  do  you  ask  me  like  that?"  she  returned 
sharply;  and  then  as  he  hesitated  to  reply,  she  said 
"  Have  you  seen  anything?  " 


240       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"  No,  no,  I  haven't,"  he  protested. 

"  What  were  they  doing  last  Sunday  night,  when 
you  took  that  song  down?     she  asked. 

"  Nothing,"  Stephen  said. 

14  Then  why  do  you  think  she  is  in  love  with  him?  " 
Cecilia  persisted. 

"  I  don't,"  Stephen  replied. 

"  But  you  think  she  might  be?  " 

"  How  can  I  possibly  tell,  mother?  "  he  defended 
himself. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  it  was  you  saw 
last  Sunday  night,  that  made  you  suspicious,"  she 
said,  returning  to  the  real  point  of  her  attack. 

Stephen  could  not  resist  the  pressure  of  her  de- 
termination. He  got  out  of  his  chair  and  began 
to  walk  up  and  down  the  little  length  of  the  boudoir. 
He  remembered  with  a  sense  of  reliving  the  past, 
how  he  had  in  almost  exactly  the  same  way  tried  to 
avoid  his  sisters'  pertinent  enquiries  about  his  mother 
in  the  room  over  the  shop  in  Long  Causeway. 

"  I  didn't  see  anything,"  he  said.  "  But  they 
were  standing  rather  close  together  as  I  turned  the 
corner  of  the  stairs,  and  I  guessed  all  of  a  sudden, 
that  there  might  be  something.  They  weren't  a 
bit  confused  or  anything  of  that  sort;  but  you'd  put 
the  idea  into  my  head  the  first  night  I  .came  here,  and 
then  I  thought  it  might  be  possible  that  .  .  ." 

"  She  isn't,"  Cecilia  declared.  "  But  apparently 
you  are."  She  disregarded  the  too  ingenuous 
"What?"  that  he  inevitably  interpolated,  continu- 
ing rapidly,  "  But  I  don't  want  you  to  be  spoiled, 
Stephen.  I  don't  want  you  to  fall  head  over  ears 
in  love  with  her,  and  make  yourself  utterly  miserable. 
She  isn't  worth  it.  No  woman  is,  unless  she  is  will- 
ing to  give  herself  up  body  and  soul.  And  I  don't 
fancy  that  Margaret  is  one  of  that  sort." 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       241 

She  had  but  repeated  his  own  argument  in  another 
form,  but  instead  of  stiffening  him,  her  speech  gave 
him  an  odd  pleasure.  This  open  discussion  of  the 
possibility  of  his  falling  in  love  with  Margaret, 
brought  with  it  a  heartening  air  of  reality.  It  is 
true  that  Cecilia's  recognition  of  the  probabilities 
still  left  Margaret  hopelessly  beyond  his  reach,  but 
it  no  longer  seemed  a  vain  absurdity  for  him  to 
adore  her  openly.  He  felt  that  he  had  been  given 
a  license  to  worship  her  without  disguising  his  emo- 
tion even  from  herself. 

"  I  know,  mother,  really,  I  do.  I  understand  all 
that,"  he  said.  "  I  know  I  should  never  have  any 
sort  of  chance  with  her." 

"  Then  hadn't  you  better  cure  yourself  of  your  in- 
fatuation as  soon  as  possible?"  Cecilia  replied. 
"  Why  go  and  see  her  again  on  Saturday,  for 
instance?  " 

Her  tone  was  not  unkind,  although  it  could  hardly 
be  called  sympathetic,  but  she  was,  Stephen  knew, 
keeping  something  in  reserve.  He  guessed  that  she 
was  willing  to  discuss  the  subject  with  him  for  just 
so  long  as  he  could  treat  it  quietly  and  remotely; 
but  that  she  shrank  from  hearing  any  emotional  pro- 
test of  his  love  for  any  woman  other  than  herself. 

"  I  think  I'm  safe,"  he  hazarded,  after  a  short 
pause. 

"  You've  only  seen  her  twice,  so  far,"  Cecilia 
began,  as  if  she  were  going  to  show  further  cause 
for  his  immediate  relinquishment  of  the  pursuit,  but 
he  interrupted  her  without  a  thought  for  the  further 
complications  in  which  he  was  involving  himself. 

"  Oh !  much  oftener  than  that,"  he  said. 

"  When?  "  she  asked  sharply. 

"  Why  at  the  King's  School,"  he  said. 

11  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  were  in 


242       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

love  with  her  then,"  she  commented.  "  I  should 
have  known !  "  And  then  evidently  recalling  all  the 
old  life  at  Medboro',  speculating  and  guessing  as  she 
talked,  she  went  on.  Unless  it  was  after  I  went. 
But  didn't  they,  Mrs.  Weatherley  and  the  children 
go  away,  too,  that  term?  You  couldn't  have  .  .  . 
Stephen,  when  was  it?  Just  a  day  or  two  before  I 
went  away?  What  happened?  Did  you  speak  to 
her?" 

He  chose  to  concentrate  on  the  last  question, 
"  No,  I  never  spoke  to  her  till  I  met  her  here  last 
Sunday,"  he  said. 

"  But  you  had  made  eyes  at  each  other?  Was 
that  it?  In  the  Park  Road  or  somewhere?" 
Cecilia's  tone  betrayed  excitement.  She  seemed  to 
be  on  the  verge  of  some  important  discovery. 

Stephen  had  forgotten  his  shrewd  inference  with 
regard  to  his  mother's  distaste  for  hearing  of  his 
love  for  another  woman.  He  was  reveling  in  the 
joys  of  confession.  All  this  talk  seemed  to  bring 
Margaret  so  near  to  him.  He  could  almost  per- 
suade himself,  at  the  moment,  that  he  and  she  had 
been  in  some  wonderful  manner  pledged  by  their 
youthful  recognitions  of  each  other. 

11  She  smiled,  once,  that  was  all,"  he  said  foolishly. 
11  In  the  dining-room  at  the  School.  We  were 
practically  alone,  there.  And  she  remembered  it 
here,  the  other  day.     She  mentioned  it." 

"  But  when  was  that,  Stephen?  "  Cecilia  asked 
eagerly.     "  Do  you  remember  the  exact  day?  " 

For  his  present  purpose,  he  remembered  it  all 
too  exactly. 

"  It  was  the  day  before  you  —  went  away,"  he 
said. 

For  two  or  three  minutes,  he  continued  slowly  to 
pace   the  carpet,   rapt  in  his  own  thoughts.     The 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        243 

memory  of  that  one  insignificant  incident  in  the 
King's  School  dining-room  was  becoming  to  him  a 
kind  of  holdfast  and  solace.  He  magnified  its  im- 
portance. In  retrospect  it  glowed  with  a  peculiar 
and  wonderful  light.  He  believed  that  it  marked 
the  one  high  and  illuminating  moment  of  life  in 
which  he  had  caught  a  passing  sight  of  the  essential 
reality. 

He  was  haled  out  of  these  intoxicating  reflections 
by  the  growing  consciousness  that  his  mother's  si- 
lence had  been  unduly  prolonged. 

She  was  sitting  very  upright  and  still,  staring 
straight  out  before  her  with  an  expression  of  intense 
concentration.  As  yet  there  was  no  suggestion  of 
judgment  in  her  face,  but  rather  of  recollection,  of 
analysis;  and  of  an  impending  and  distressing  reali- 
zation. 

As  Stephen  stopped  and  looked  at  her,  she  drew 
in  her  breath  with  a  deep  and  sustained  inspiration, 
as  if  she  sought  by  that  means  to  renew  and  uphold 
her  strength. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  mother?"  Stephen 
asked.     "  You  don't  feel  faint,  do  you?  " 

She  turned  her  head,  then,  and  stared  at  him  with 
the  cool,  detached  glance  of  a  judge  listening  to  the 
defense  of  some  unimportant  prisoner. 

"  Was  it,  really,  the  day  before  I  went  away?  " 
she  said  as  if  no  interval  had  elapsed  since  he  had 
marked  that  critical  date.  "  The  day  that  I  had 
my  organ  lesson  in  the  Cathedral, —  and  the  Bells 
came  in  after  supper, —  and  I  came  up  to  your 
room  and  told  you  everything  about  Christopher  and 
me?  What  a  lot  of  things  happened  on  that  day, 
Stephen.     Do  you  believe  in  Fate?" 

The  awful  detachment  of  her  tone  made  him 
shiver,  it  had  the  aloofness  of  the  insane.     He  tried 


244       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

instinctively  to  combat  it  by  the  familiar  humanity 
of  a  slight  pettishness. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  take  it  like  this," 
he  said  irritably.  /  didn't,  when  you  told  me  that 
you  were  in  love." 

She  gave  no  sign  of  being  annoyed  by  that  daring 
thrust. 

M  On  the  other  hand  you  certainly  gave  me  neither 
sympathy  nor  encouragement,"  she  remarked  with  a 
cool  ironical  smile. 

"  Well,  how  could  I  —  under  the  circumstances?  " 
he  returned,  still  maintaining  his  defensive  note  of 
irritation. 

11  Oh!  the  circumstances!  "  Cecilia  ejaculated  dis- 
dainfully, as  if  no  circumstances  could  be  of  any 
account  in  this  case. 

Stephen  stood  staring  at  her;  trying  to  read  some 
subtle  meaning  in  her  last  sentence. 

"Wasn't  it  just  you  and  me?"  she  explained, 
with  the  first  ring  of  emotion  coming  into  her  voice. 
"  And  wouldn't  you  have  at  least  tried  to  under- 
stand, if  your  silly  boy's  head  hadn't  been  full  of 
some  ridiculous  nonsense  about  a  child  of  how  old? 
—  twelve  was  she,  then,  or  thirteen?" 

"  That  hadn't  anything  to  do  with  it,"  he  said 
with  an  effort  of  scorn,  as  though  he  must  dismiss 
her  absurd  suggestion  at  once,  beat  it  down  and 
crush  it  out,  before  it  had  time  to  display  itself. 

"  It  had  everything  to  do  with  it,"  Cecilia  said 
with  an  effect  of  definitely  taking  the  stage.  "  I 
didn't  know  at  the  time;  I  couldn't  understand  it, 
then;  but  I  see  it  now  —  oh !  so  clearly.  You  didn't 
want  me;  quite  suddenly  you  didn't  want  me  any 
more.  And  I  knew  it,  though  I  never  guessed  why. 
I  thought  you  were  jealous,  at  first,  but  afterwards 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       24s 

I  felt  that  it  was  more  than  that.  I  felt  that  it 
was  final,  that  I  had  lost  you. 

"  I  was  so  puzzled  by  that,"  she  continued  in  a 
cooler  tone.  I  wondered  if  it  were  possible  that 
I  had  always  been  mistaken  in  you  —  if  you  were 
after  all,  just  a  conventional  little  narrow-minded 
Kirkwood  like  your  father  and  sisters,  and  had  been 
so  shocked  that  it  had  all  come  out.  I  tried  to 
believe  that.  Do  you  remember  how  you  came  in 
after  the  cricket  match?  I  was  convinced  then. 
I  was  sure  that  if  you  were  like  us,  you  couldn't 
possibly  be  so  wrapt  up  in  your  games  that  you  hadn't 
a  thought  to  spare  for  me,  just  then,  of  all  times. 
And  I  tried  to  console  myself  with  that  idea.  I  kept 
saying  to  myself,  Oh !  Stephen's  just  a  Kirkwood,  a 
little,  shop-keeping  Medboro'  Kirkwood.  He  isn't 
worth  bothering  about. 

"  But  it  wasn't  that.  I  can  see  it,  now.  You 
were  in  love,  in  your  boy's  way,  with  that  chit  at 
the  school.  And  you  didn't  want  me,  not  then. 
You'd  have  been  afraid  to  tell  me  about  it. 
Wouldn't  you?  You'd  have  expected  me  to  laugh 
at  you.  So  you  weren't  so  very  sorry,  after  all, 
that  I  was  going  to  leave  you  for  good." 

'  That  isn't  true,"  Stephen  put  in  with  conviction. 
"  I'd  have  done  anything  in  the  world  to  stop  you 
going,  you  know  I  would.  Didn't  I  try  my  hardest, 
and  you  only  laughed  at  me." 

"  Not  your  hardest,  at  least  not  until  it  was  too 
late,"  she  said.  "  Why  didn't  you  try  before?  On 
the  field  that  afternoon?  Instead  of  sulking  and 
mooning  and  then  going  in  and  making  a  hundred? 
And  afterwards  when  you  came  home.  Did  you  try 
then?  You  didn't,  you  know  you  didn't.  You  were 
glad  to  be  free  of  me." 


246       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

Stephen  frowned  and  clenched  his  hands.  He 
could  not  find  the  defense  that  he  felt  sure  must  be 
forthcoming.  The  accusation  that  he  wanted  to  be 
free  from  her,  had  a  spice  of  truth  that  he  could 
not  deny.  He  remembered  clearly  his  feeling  of 
release.  Yet,  he  was  sure  that  there  must  be  some 
explanation  of  that. 

"  Weren't  you,  now?  "  she  pressed  him. 

"  It's  so  difficult,"  he  said  evasively.  "  It  was 
all  so  complicated.  I  don't  know  what  I  wanted. 
I  didn't  then  —  except  that  I  am  quite  certain  that  I 
didn't  want  you  to  go  away  with  Dr.  Threlfall." 

"  If  you'd  wanted  to  keep  me,  you  could  have 
stopped  me,"  she  returned.  "  I  knew  it,  then. 
And  I  should  have  been  glad  if  you  had  stopped  me. 
I  wanted  something  to  hold  on  to.  I  meant,  I 
always  meant  to  hold  on  to  you ;  and  then  you  failed 
me."  She  pulled  herself  up,  controlling  the  faint 
tendency  to  hysteria  in  her  voice  as  she  went  on, 
"  Queer,  isn't  it,  Stephen,  to  think  that  if  that  school- 
girl hadn't  happened  to  smile  at  you,  that  day,  I 
might  still  have  been  living  at  Medboro'?  " 

He  caught  at  that  suggestion  as  a  means  of  escape 
from  the  responsibility  she  was  steadily  thrusting  on 
him.  "  But,  mother,"  he  said,  "  You're  glad,  now, 
anyway,  that  you're  not  living  there  still.  As  things 
have  turned  out,  it  has  been  all  for  the  best  in  a  way, 
hasn't  it?" 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  watching  him  atten- 
tively. "  Well,  yes,  of  course,"  she  said  lightly. 
"  I'm  certainly  better  off,  as  I  am." 

It  was  not  a  convincing  answer,  and  Stephen  real- 
ized the  suggestion  of  some  vital  reserve  which  she 
might  or  might  not  be  willing  to  reveal  if  he  pressed 
her.  But  he  did  not  wish  to  penetrate  those  secrets, 
—  or  certainly  not  just  then.     He  wanted  to  renew 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       247 

the  relations  she  had  established  so  happily,  ten 
days  before.  They  might  be  superficial,  even  a 
trifle  theatrical,  but  they  satisfied  him.  He  desired 
eagerly  to  be  on  good  terms  with  her,  filial  terms, 
but  he  knew  that  they  could  never  recover  the  old 
intimacy;  that  she  could  never  again  be  his  sole  object 
of  love  and  adoration. 

He  made  a  gesture  that  he  had  caught  from  her. 
"Well,  then,  why  are  you  so  hard  on  me?"  he 
asked.  "If  it  has  all  been  for  the  best?"  He 
smiled.  He  did  all  he  could  to  achieve  the  effect  of 
displaying  his  love  for  her  under  an  assumption  of 
serious  gayety. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  then  played  up 
to  him  by  saying,  "  I  suppose  you  had  my  future 
welfare  in  mind  all  the  time?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  hadn't,"  he  said.  "  If  anything 
I  could  have  done  would  have  kept  you  from 
going  away,  I'd  have  done  it  without  a  second 
thought." 

"  And  now?  "  she  asked. 

"  Now?"  he  repeated. 

"  What  would  you  do  to  keep  me,  now?  " 

"  Anything.  Any  mortal  thing,"  he  said,  and  for 
fear  she  might  instantly  name  the  one  obvious  thing 
he  would  not  do,  he  went  on  quickly;  "  Even  walk  all 
the  way  home  to  Camberwell,  because  it's  too  late 
to  get  a  'bus  or  a  tram;  after  a  long  day's  work. 
Can  you  ask  more  than  that?" 

She  could  have  asked  much  more,  but  she  spared 
him,  then.  "  I'll  give  you  five  shillings  for  a  cab," 
she  said. 

For  the  time  being,  the  new  relations  between 
them  were  reestablished  as  a  working  arrangement 
that  might  last  until  the  next  crisis.  But  Stephen 
knew  that  that  crisis  might  arise  at  any  moment; 


248       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

that  he  might  have  to  choose  between  Margaret  and 
his  mother  —  at  his  mother's  direction. 

She  only  made  one  further  reference  to  that  topic 
before  he  went.  They  were  at  the  Hall  door,  then, 
and  she  said :  "  When  will  you  move  your  things 
up  to  Bloomsbury  Street  on  Saturday,  if  you're  go- 
ing to  the  Weatherleys'  ?  " 

u  Oh !  I'll  do  that  first,"  he  replied. 

"Shall  you  come  in  here  afterwards  —  to  sup- 
per? "  she  asked. 

He  said  that  he  would. 


Stephen  was  irritably  aware  of  not  being  at  all 
a  success  for  the  first  half  of  his  call  on  the  Weath- 
erleys. Dr.  Weatherley  seemed  to  him  more  adult 
than  ever,  and  more  unimpeachably  a  scholar  and  a 
schoolmaster. 

While  they  were  having  tea,  he  stood  on  the 
hearthrug  like  a  pocket  colossus,  admirably  manag- 
ing his  tea-cup,  and  talking  persistently,  in  a  steady 
stream  of  assertions  that  showed  how  clearly  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  on  every  conceivable  subject  and 
how  definitely  he  was  able  to  express  himself.  He 
diversified  his  lecture,  however,  and  at  the  same  time 
acknowledged  his  duties  as  host,  by  a  system  of  ques- 
tion and  answer.  Every  one  present  got  his  or  her 
neat  examination  in  turn,  and  after  the  viva  voce 
Dr.  Weatherley  would  close  that  aspect  of  his  case 
with  a  neat  summary  by  way  of  a  concise  expo- 
sition or  a  polite  disagreement,  and  turn  to  the  next 
candidate.  It  was  evidently  understood  by  all  his 
visitors  that  he  was  a  very  great  man,  condescending 
to  an  ignorant,  if  momentarily  interesting,  group  of 
intelligent  listeners. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       249 

His  sister,  Mrs.  Galloway,  who  ran  the  house  for 
him,  appeared  to  accept  the  inevitability  of  her 
brother's  manner  of  conducting  the  entertainment 
without  approving  it.  She  was  a  rather  untidy 
widow  of  fifty  or  so,  with  an  air  of  absent-mindedly 
wishing  that  the  affair  was  over  so  that  she  might 
attend  to  something  really  important  elsewhere. 

The  only  visitor  whom  Stephen  particularly 
noticed  among  the  six  or  seven  who  were  apparently 
sitting  for  their  pass  degree,  was  young  Hall. 
(Stephen  had  still  failed  to  place  the  distinctive 
association  suggested  by  the  name  Fletton  Hall). 
He  was  precisely  the  same  bright,  trickily  clever  boy 
he  had  shown  himself  to  be  in  old  Sercombe's  class. 
Stephen  thought  him  overdressed.  His  elegant  tail- 
coat, the  white  slip  under  his  waistcoat,  the  amazing 
straightness  of  his  gray  trousers,  the  brilliant  boots 
emphasized  by  white  spats  that  fitted  so  perfectly 
they  might  almost  have  been  painted  on, —  all  pro- 
duced an  effect  that  could  only  be  described  as 
"  slick."  Even  his  neatly  handsome  face  and  fair 
hair  seemed  to  have  been  considered  in  relation  to 
his  general  appearance.  He  was  altogether  too 
complete  and  consistent  for  a  young  man  of  twenty- 
four. 

He  passed  his  examination  with  credit.  His  sub- 
ject was  the  influence  of  journalism  on  the  molding 
of  public  opinion,  and  as  he  made  it  clear  that  he 
fully  endorsed  his  host's  public  pronouncements  on 
the  question  of  Tariff  Reform,  he  received  an  en- 
couraging pat  on  the  back  in  the  course  of  Dr. 
Weatherley's  summary. 

Stephen,  on  the  other  hand,  did  not  shine  at  all. 
Weatherley,  who  made  it  his  business  to  know  every- 
thing, had  deftly  turned  his  address  to  the  subject 
of  trades-unionism  by  the  time  he  reached  Stephen, 


250       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

and  having  asked  him  by  way  of  introduction  what 
was  the  effect  of  that  movement  on  the  building 
trade,  forced  from  him  the  rather  grudging  admis- 
sion that  it  increased  the  cost  of  labor  without  im- 
proving its  quality. 

14  You  admit,  in  fact,"  Weatherley  said,  moving 
towards  his  summary,  "  that  the  growth  of  the 
trades-unions  is  becoming  a  menace  to  society." 

44  The  men  must  defend  themselves  against  sweat- 
ing," mumbled  Stephen,  who  was  very  familiar  with 
the  labor  point  of  view  on  this  subject. 

44  That  can  be  better  done  by  legislation,"  Dr. 
Weatherley  replied  and  showed  precisely  why  and 
how. 

14  Only  it  isn't  done,"  Stephen  persisted,  "  and 
half  the  abuses  of  employment  would  never  have 
been  heard  of,  if  the  men  hadn't  got  together  and 
resisted  them." 

Weatherley  denied  that  assertion  with  selected  in- 
stances, summarized  the  general  argument  and 
passed  on  to  the  next  candidate.  It  was  understood 
that  Stephen  had  been  plowed.  He  saw  young  Hall 
regarding  him  with  a  supercilious  smile,  and  had  a 
dreadful  inclination  to  put  his  tongue  out  at  him. 
It  was  not  that  Stephen  cared  for  young  Hall's 
opinion  nor  even  for  Dr.  Weatherley's  but  he  would 
have  preferred  to  have  appeared  to  better  advan- 
tage before  Margaret.  She  had  looked  at  him, 
once,  rather  sympathetically,  when  he  was  under  ex- 
amination, and  it  had  flashed  across  his  mind  that 
she  might  not  always  agree  with  her  father's  views. 
How  splendid  it  would  have  been  if  he  could  have 
been  eloquent  and  convincing,  but  he  knew  that  he 
could  never  be  that.  He  was  just  a  practical,  com- 
petent builder's  clerk,  and  he  must  not  be  tempted 
to     forget     the     fact.     Nevertheless,     he     longed 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       251 

earnestly  for  some  opportunity  to  score  off  that  slick, 
impudent  young  Hall. 

At  half-past  five,  Dr.  Weatherley  having  given 
more  than  an  hour  of  his  valuable  time  to  his  infer- 
entially  grateful  guests,  announced  with  a  decent  air 
of  regret  that  he  had  to  attend  a  committee  at 
six  o'clock;  and  there  was  a  general  stir  and  an 
orthodox  murmuring  concerning  other  remembered 
engagements.  Stephen  got  up  with  the  others,  and 
his  hand  was  shaken  in  its  turn  by  his  departing  host. 
"  You  must  come  and  see  us,  again,  Kirkwood," 
Weatherley  said  with  a  vague  smile;  "  always  de- 
lighted to  see  our  old  boys." 

Stephen  mumbled  his  acknowledgments,  and  was 
looking  for  Mrs.  Galloway,  when  he  saw  Mar- 
garet shaking  her  head  at  him  with  a  look  that  said 
plainly  enough  that  he  was  not  to  go,  yet;  making 
at  the  same  time  a  little  gesture,  as  if  playfully  com- 
manding him  to  sit  down  again. 

He  trembled  slightly  as  he  obeyed  her,  not  only 
because  this  invitation  was  an  unexpected  mark  of 
favor,  but  also  because  as  their  eyes  had  met,  he 
had  seen  something  of  the  same  beckoning  look  she 
had  given  him  in  the  school  dining-room.  In  the 
midst  of  that  little  crowd  of  moving  people,  he  and 
she  had  been  for  one  infinitesimal  moment,  alone, 
and  aware  of  each  other,  alone  as  they  had  never 
once  been,  when  they  were  suspended  together  in  that 
dangling  bucket,  two  hundred  feet  in  the  air.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  in  that  moment,  she  had  lowered 
her  defenses,  singled  him  out  and  approved  him. 

He  was  startled  when  a  smooth  voice  beside  him 
said,  "  Well,  Kirkwood,  how  are  you  getting  on?  " 

"  Oh !  all  right,"  Stephen  replied  automatically. 
He  was  absurdly  downcast  and  disappointed  to  find 
that  young  Hall  had,  also,  been  invited  to  outstay 


252       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

the  other  guests.  Had  Margaret  given  him  the 
same  signal,  Stephen  wondered? 

"  Mighty  clever  man,  Dr.  Weatherley,"  Hall  re- 
marked by  way  of  continuing  the  conversation. 
"  Had  you  badly  over  that  trades-union  argument, 
didn't  he?" 

Stephen  frowned.  "  Is  that  what  you  call  an 
argument?  "  he  asked.  "  I  should  have  called  it  a 
lecture.  I  never  got  a  chance  to  put  the  men's  side 
of  the  case,  and  I  can  tell  you  they've  got  plenty 
to  say." 

Hall  nodded,  and  neatly  crossed  his  beautiful  legs. 
"  Socialist?  "  he  asked  pertly. 

"  Not  likely,"  Stephen  returned  with  scorn. 
11  But  I  shall  probably  be  a  big  employer  of  labor 
one  day,  and  it's  just  as  well  to  understand  what 
you're  up  against."  It  was  not  his  habit  to  boast, 
but  young  Hall  provoked  the  fighting  quality  in  him. 
A  bitter  regret  that  he  had  not  licked  him  seven  years 
ago  flashed  across  Stephen's  mind,  and  was  followed 
by  a  sudden  pleasure  in  the  thought  of  how  conclu- 
sively he  could  do  it,  now,  if  opportunity  offered. 

Hall's  eyebrows  went  up.  Didn't  know  you 
were  one  of  the  bosses,"  he  remarked,  without  any 
sign  of  being  impressed. 

"  I'm  not,  yet,"  Stephen  replied  curtly.  "  What 
are  you  doing,  now?  " 

Hall  looked  modestly  down  at  the  toe  of  his 
shining  boot.  "  Such  is  Fame,"  he  commented 
thoughtfully. 

"Why,  what  have  you  been  doing?"  Stephen 
asked.     "  Robbing  a  bank  or  something?  " 

11  I  published  a  book  last  autumn  that  had  rather 
a  success,"  Hall  explained.  a  You  may  have  seen 
it  advertised,  perhaps,  and  forgotten  it.  It  was 
called  '  The  Stone  Rejected.'  " 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       253 

"Oh!  Good  Lord!  "  Stephen  ejaculated,  placing 
his  lost  association  at  last.  "  Of  course,  Fletton 
Hall.  That's  you  is  it?  Yes,  I  read  that  book, 
in  Medboro'  last  January.  They  shoved  it  on  to 
me  at  the  library,  there,  told  me  it  was  the  great 
success  of  the  year.  But  I  never  knew  that  it  had 
anything  to  do  with  you." 

"  It  did  go  rather  well,"  Hall  admitted  compla- 
cently. "  Hardly  your  kind  of  book,  though,  I 
should  imagine." 

"  Well,  no,  it  wasn't  much,"  Stephen  said  brutally, 
remembering  the  medley  of  sentimentalism  and  re- 
ligion that  had  been  the  book's  chief  attraction. 
"  Have  you  turned  pious,  then  ?  "  he  asked.  "  From 
what  I  remember  you  had  the  religious  stop  on 
pretty  loud." 

"  It  pays,  you  know,"  Hall  replied  lightly. 
'  When  it's  not  overdone,  of  course.  And  luck- 
ily for  me,  I  seem  to  have  the  knack  of  it;  though 
honestly,  I  believe  it  all  as  I  write.  I  get  tre- 
mendously moved  by  my  own  writing,  some- 
times." 

Stephen  experienced  a  sensation  of  almost  physi- 
cal disgust.  He  felt  that  there  was  something  in- 
nately false  in  young  Hall.  He,  himself,  had  un- 
doubtedly inherited  some  of  the  perception  and  sen- 
sibilities of  the  artist  from  his  Edwardes  ancestry, 
and  he  intuitively  recognized  and  loathed  the  suc- 
cess of  the  Charlatan. 

He  had  no  opportunity,  however,  even  if  he  had 
had  the  intention,  of  expressing  his  feelings  on  that 
subject,  for  Mrs.  Galloway  had  returned  while  Hall 
was  speaking  and,  now,  drifted  over  to  the  corner 
in  which  the  two  young  men  were  sitting,  with  an 
expression  of  not  being  quite  sure  what  they  were 
doing  there. 


254       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

Stephen  felt  a  little  uncomfortable,  but  Hall  was 
fully  equal  to  the  occasion. 

u  Hope  we're  not  being  a  nuisance,  Mrs.  Gallo- 
way/' he  said  brightly.  Miss  Weatherley  asked 
me  to  stay  and  talk  over  that  play  I  wanted  to  write 
for  her.  I'm  hoping  to  collaborate  with  Miss  Cran- 
tock.  And  Kirkwood  and  I  were  just  having  a  chat 
over  old  times.  We  were  at  school  together,  you 
know." 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  Mrs.  Galloway  replied  vaguely. 
11  Dr.  Weatherley  has  such  a  large  collection  of  old 
boys.     I  don't  know  why." 

Would  you  think  it  rude  of  me  if  I  went  down- 
stairs to  write  a  few  letters?  "  she  continued,  look- 
ing at  Stephen.  u  Margaret  and  Grace  will  enter- 
tain you.  Are  you  writing  a  play  for  Margaret,  too, 
Mr.  Kirkwood?  I  suppose  you  must  be.  Every 
one  is." 

Stephen  laughed.  "  Then  I'm  the  one  exception," 
he  said. 

11  Exception  to  what?  "  asked  Margaret  who  had 
come  into  the  room  with  her  sister,  as  he  was 
speaking. 

"  To  the  rule  that  every  one  is  writing  plays  for 
you,"  he  said.  To  young  Hall  and  Mrs.  Galloway 
he  had  spoken  lightly  and  easily,  but  his  voice  and 
manner  changed  as  he  addressed  Margaret.  There 
was  now  something  almost  reproachful  in  his  tone, 
as  if  he  would  chide  her  for  being  so  beautiful. 

"  You  might  try  another  idea  for  the  Master 
Builder,"  put  in  Hall,  "  with  lots  of  convincing  de- 
tail, you  know.  By  the  way  is  that  your  show  on  the 
Embankment?  I  thought  I  saw  old  Dickinson's 
board  up  there,  the  other  day." 

"  Yes,  that's  my  show,"  Stephen  replied  gravely, 
and  looked  at   Margaret,   at   once   expecting   and 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       255 

dreading  that  she  would  retell  the  tale  of  her  recent 
exploit  to  young  Hall. 

It  appeared,  however,  that  she  also  had  suddenly 
developed  a  reticence  upon  that  topic,  for  when  her 
aunt  began,  "  Wasn't  that  where  you  went?  "  Mar- 
garet interrupted  her  at  once  by  saying,  "  Now  dear, 
you  may  get  off  to  the  writing  of  your  beloved  let- 
ters.    You  know  you're  dying  to  get  away." 

Mrs.  Galloway  sighed  and  turned  to  Stephen. 
"  My  nieces  pride  themselves  on  being  very  mod- 
ern," she  said.  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  we 
can  do  about  it.  Good-by,  Mr.  Kirkwood.  I  do 
really  hope  you'll  come  and  see  us  again,  soon.  It's 
so  original  of  you  not  to  write  plays." 

She  drifted  out  of  the  room  without  taking  any 
further  notice  of  the  brilliant  young  author  of  The 
Stone  Rejected." 

He,  however,  gave  no  sign  of  being  offended  by 
her  oversight.  "  Now,  Miss  Weatherley,"  he  said 
to  Margaret,  "  are  you  going  to  be  good  enough  to 
give  me  half-an-hour  ?  There  are  heaps  of  things  I 
want  to  ask  your  advice  about,  and  I  want  your  help, 
too,  about  Miss  Crantock.  You  must  persuade  her, 
you  know;  /  can't.  Sometimes  she  almost  gives  me 
the  impression,  incredible  as  it  seems,  that  she's  a 
little  jealous  of  my  success.  Her  own  books,  you 
know,  don't  sell.  Too  clever  for  the  G.P.  I  tell 
her  it's  always  a  mistake  to  be  too  clever.  Never 
do  it  myself."  He  simpered  with  an  affectation  of 
implying  that  cleverness  of  Miss  Crantock's  sort  was 
not  in  his  line. 

Margaret  hesitated  and  glanced  almost  timidly 
at  Stephen,  who  on  his  part  was  ready,  just  then,  to 
pick  up  young  Hall  by  the  slack  —  if  he  could  find 
any  —  of  his  lovely  trousers  and  toss  him  out  of 
the  window.     He  knew  quite  certainly  that  he  could 


256       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

not  endure  to  see  young  Hall  holding  a  long  private 
conversation  with  Margaret.  He  was  willing  to 
risk  even  the  ultimate  penalty  of  her  displeasure  to 
avoid  that.  Her  hesitating  glance  decided  him. 
He  knew  instantly  that  she  did  not  want  to  talk 
about  that  infernally  silly  play;  and  if  he  had  her 
on  his  side  he  cared  nothing  for  manners. 

He  turned  upon  young  Hall  with  a  touch  of  fierce- 
ness. "  I've  got  something  to  talk  about  to  Miss 
Weatherley,  too,"  he  said  roughly.  "  You'll  have 
to  wait." 

Hall  manifestly  blenched.  Stephen's  attitude  was 
violent  and  threatening.  He  had  in  that  one  mo- 
ment transformed  the  decorous  and  secure  drawing- 
room  of  the  house  in  Bryanston  Square  into  a  place 
of  primitive  and  brutal  passions.  And  Fletton  Hall 
was  already  a  creature  of  use  and  custom,  over  civ- 
ilized and  tender.  His  spirit  wilted  at  the  least 
threat  of  violence.  His  very  vices  were  the  pale  and 
feeble  growths  of  solitude,  etiolated  and  tender 
from  confinement. 

He  snickered  nervously.  "  Oh !  all  right,  all 
right,  Kirkwood,"  he  said  in  a  high,  thin  voice. 
"  No  need  to  get  excited  about  it,  you  know.  I  can 
wait." 

Grace  Weatherley,  standing  a  little  apart  from 
the  other  three,  had  surveyed  this  scene  with  a  smile 
of  amusement:  "  If  you  could  put  up  with  my  com- 
pany for  a  little  time,  Mr.  Hall,"  she  suggested, 
now,  "  perhaps  my  very  precious  sister  might  be  able 
to  spare  you  your  half-hour  later  on.  Or  do  you 
think  she's  really  worth  fighting  for?  " 

11  Grace!  "  Margaret  protested. 

Hall  was  mumbling  expostulations  to  the  effect 
that  Miss  Grace  Weatherley's  company  was  all  that 
any  man  could  desire. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       257 

"But  why  shouldn't  we  be  frank,  my  dear?" 
Grace  asked.  "  It's  so  refreshing.  I  think  it  would 
be  perfectly  delightful  to  see  an  honest  fight. 
Couldn't  you  come  up  to  the  scratch,  Mr.  Hall? 
I'll  be  your  second.  Just  one  round  for  the  privi- 
lege of  the  first  call  upon  Margaret's  attention." 

Hall,  rapidly  recovering  himself,  laughed  lightly. 

"  Afraid  I'm  hardly  up  to  Kirkwood's  weight, 
you  know,"  he  said.  "  He  can  give  me  two  or 
three  stone,  at  least.  Besides  which  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted to  wait.  I  don't  think  you  can  have  heard 
all  the  charming  things  I've  been  trying  to  say  about 
you,  Miss  Weatherley." 

"  Oh !  come  alone,  Mr.  Kirkwood,"  Margaret  in- 
terpbsed,  "  Graqe  is  perfectly  dreadful  when  she 
gets  in  this  mood.  She  has  got  some  crazy  theory 
or  other  about  self-expression." 

She  was  moving  away  as  she  spoke  and  Stephen 
followed  her  across  the  drawing-room  which  was  cer- 
tainly large  enough  to  accommodate  two  couples 
without  interference. 

The  whole  incident  had  not  lasted  more  than  three 
or  four  minutes,  but  the  effect  of  it  had  definitely  in- 
fluenced the  relations  of  Stephen  and  Margaret. 
Her  sister  had  exhibited  him  in  the  guise  of  Mar- 
garet's lover,  and  she,  herself,  so  far  from  repu- 
diating that  suggestion  had  given  him  preference 
over  his  rival,  and  was  leading  him  into  the  seclu- 
sion of  a  private  conference.  At  the  moment  he  had 
been  abashed  by  Grace's  innuendo,  but  now  he  found 
himself  suddenly  valiant  and  confident. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  talk  about  that  silly  play 
with  Hall,"  he  said  boldly,  as  soon  as  they  were 
seated  together  on  the  far  side  of  the  room. 

"  Why  not?  "  she  asked,  without  looking  at  him. 
Even  now  that  he  had  so  manifestly  come  to  the 


258       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

verge  of  love-making,  she  found  him  different  from 
the  other  men  with  whom  she  had  traversed  this 
familiar  ground. 

11  I  want  to  wring  his  neck,"  Stephen  affirmed 
savagely. 

"  I'm  sure  you  could,"  Margaret  said;  "but  I 
don't  know  why  you  should  want  to." 

"  Do  you  like  him?  "  Stephen  asked,  suspiciously. 

"  Not  particularly,"  she  said. 

11  But  you  —  you  tolerate  him;  and  you'd  let  him 
write  a  play  for  you?  " 

She  looked  at  him  mischievously.  "  Why  not?  " 
she  asked. 

Stephen  frowned.     "  I  don't  like  him,"  he  said. 

"  I  inferred  that,"  she  replied,  smiling,  "  But  it's 
hardly  a  reason  why  I  should  refuse  to  let  him  write 
a  play  for  me,  is  it?  " 

"Have  you  read  his  book?"  Stephen  asked 
abruptly. 

"  Of  course.  That's  what  the  play  is  about," 
she  said. 

11  But  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  could  .  .  . 
that  you'd  care  to  act  in  a  thing  like  that?  "  he  pro- 
tested. 

11  To  be  quite  honest,  I  don't  think  I  would,"  Mar- 
garet replied  more  seriously.  His  earnestness  made 
her  nervous.  She  was  afraid  to  respond  to  it,  lest 
what  she  intended  to  be  nothing  more  than  an  amus- 
ing flirtation  should  develop  into  a  disturbing  and 
difficult  love-affair.  But  she  found  that  she  could 
not  maintain  her  persiflage  against  the  steady  oppo- 
sition of  his  sincerity.  Moreover  he  had  so  much 
the  air,  just  now,  of  wanting  to  protect  her. 

Stephen's  gravity  was  mingled  with  an  evident 
strain  of  perplexity  as  he  replied,  M  But  if  you  don't 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       259 

want  him  to  write  the  play  for  you,  why  do  you  en- 
courage him  to  think  you  would?  " 

"  Oh!  one  does,"  Margaret  said. 

'  I  wish  you  wouldn't,"  Stephen  ventured. 

44  So  insincere?  "  she  questioned,  prepared  to  find 
entertainment  in  the  lecture,  she,  now,  confidently 
anticipated. 

He  was  surprised  by  her  answer.  He  would 
never  have  dreamt  of  questioning  her  sincerity,  nor, 
indeed,  of  criticizing  her  by  any  common  standard. 
If  she  were  insincere,  then  insincerity  was  an  exquisite 
and  charming  virtue  in  her.  There  was  at  the  mo- 
ment but  one  thing  he  could  not  forgive  her,  and  that 
was  the  granting  of  a  private  interview  to  the  despic- 
able Fletton  Hall. 

44  Oh!  no,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  he  said. 

44  What  did  you  mean  then?  "  he  asked. 

14  Only  that  I  didn't  want  you  to  talk  to  young 
Hall,"  he  said. 

44  Very  well,  I  won't,"  she  agreed,  experimentally; 
feeling  that  it  was  high  time  they  attempted  a  new 
variation.  And,  then,  a  little  scared  by  the  com- 
promising sound  of  her  promise,  she  continued  at 
once.  "  All  the  same,  I  should  like  to  know  what 
you've  got  against  him,  particularly.  We  none  of 
us  care  for  him,  of  course.  Father  thinks  he's  clever 
in  his  way,  but  that's  all.  And  Aunt  Judith  can't 
bear  him.     She  calls  him  the  white  rat." 

44  He  was  called  4  rat,'  at  school,"  Stephen  inter- 
polated. 

44  Was  he?  "  Margaret  commented  with  interest. 
She  was  relieved  to  find  herself  on  safe  ground  after 
her  too  significant  concession  to  Stephen's  wishes. 
44  And  did  you  dislike  him  very  much  then?  " 

44 1  suppose  you've  forgotten  that  he  was  in  the 


260       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

dining-room  that  day,  when  you  .  .  .  that  day  at 
the  King's  School,  we  were  talking  about  last  Sun- 
day? "  he  said. 

He  had  been  so  solemn  from  the  outset  of  their 
conversation  that  she  failed  to  remark  the  additional 
reverence  with  which  he  avoided  a  too  particular 
description  of  the  unique  occasion. 

11  When  I  smiled  at  you,  do  you  mean?  "  she  said. 
"  No,  I  seem  to  remember  that  there  was  some  one 
else  in  the  room;  I  didn't  know  it  was  Mr.  Hall. 
Why?" 

"Oh!  he  —  he  used  to  rot  me  about  it,  after- 
wards," Stephen  said.  "  I  wanted  to  fight  him, 
badly;  but  he  sneaked  out  of  it.  I  wish  I  had  made 
him,  now." 

She  glanced  at  him  with  a  touch  of  bewilder- 
ment. He  had  made  no  attemt  to  flirt  with  her;  he 
did  not  even  look  at  her  while  he  was  speaking. 
Yet  had  his  words  been  delivered  with  a  less  serious 
air,  they  could  only  have  been  interpreted  as  con- 
veying the  intention  of  love-making.  It  flashed 
through  her  mind  that  he  might  be  making  fun  of 
her,  but  she  dismissed  that  solution  as  being  too 
incredible. 

"  I  should  have  been  frightfully  proud  if  I'd 
known  that  the  boys  were  fighting  about  me,"  she 
remarked. 

"  I    don't   know   that   they   ever   did,    actually," 
Stephen  said,  "  but,  of  course.   .  .   ." 
Of  course,  what?  "  she  prompted  him. 

"  They  —  well  —  they  admired  you  tremen- 
dously," he  said. 

She  laughed  gayly.  "  I  wish  I'd  known,"  she 
commented. 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  could  have  meant  anything 
to  you,"  Stephen  said.     "  I  should  have  thought, 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       261 

even  then,  you  must  have  been  pretty  well  used  to 
it" 

He  had  no  sense  of  boldness  in  making  that  state- 
ment; no  thought  of  paying  her  a  compliment.  He 
had  simply,  as  he  supposed,  affirmed  the  obvious. 

Margaret  blushed.  "Oh!  what  rubbish!"  she 
said. 

Stephen  accepted  her  disclaimer  in  all  seriousness. 

"  You  must  have  known,  surely,"  he  said,  "  by 
the  way  some  of  the  boys  used  to  look  at  you." 

11  I'm  sure  you  never  did,"  she  replied. 

"  I  was  too  shy,"  Stephen  explained.  "  I  felt  that 
I  wasn't  good  enough,  any  way, —  if  you  know  what 
I  mean?  Even  when  you  .  .  .  smiled  at  me,  I  was 
afraid  to  smile  back.  I  thought  you  might  have 
meant  it  for  young  Hall,  or  something." 

"  And  did  you  go  on  thinking  that  afterwards?  " 
she  asked. 

"  No,  not  afterwards." 

14  What  did  you  think,  then?  That  I  was  a  for- 
ward little  minx?  " 

"  Afterwards  I  dared  to  hope  that  for  some  rea- 
son or  other  you  had  meant  it  for  me,"  Stephen  said, 
still  with  the  same  detached  sedateness.  "  I  kept 
on  thinking  about  it.  And  I  suppose  it's  true  in  a 
way  that  it  altered  the  whole  of  my  life." 

Margaret  made  an  ejaculation  of  incredulous 
surprise. 

Do  you  mind  my  telling  you  all  this?  "  Stephen 
asked.     "  You  don't  think  it  impertinent  of  me?  " 

11  No,  no,  please  tell  me,"  Margaret  said.  She 
was  beginning  to  realize  his  attitude,  now.  She 
saw  it  as  a  strange  and  thrilling  revival  of  the  days 
of  chivalry.  He  was  proclaiming  himself  her 
knight,  but  he  asked  for  no  return  save  the  privi- 
lege of  offering  humble  service. 


262       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"  It's  rather  hard  to  explain,"  Stephen  continued: 
"  but  our  affairs  at  home  were  in  a  very  funny  state 
just  then.  It  was  the  day  before  my  mother  went 
away,  and  she  told  me  two  nights  ago  that  it  was  the 
way  I  behaved  that  settled  it.  She  said  I  was  — 
different  to  her." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  she  knew  about  —  me?" 
Margaret  asked. 

"  Not  at  the  time,"  Stephen  said.  "  She  only 
guessed  last  Thursday  when  I  got  your  note.  It 
was,  then,  she  told  me  what  a  difference  it  had  made 
my  being  .  .  ."  He  could  not  finish  that,  and  went 
on,  "  You  see,  she  saw  I  had  altered  in  some  way, 
although  she  didn't  know  why.  She  said  she  felt 
as  if  I  didn't  want  her  any  more.  We  were  such 
tremendous  friends  in  those  days.  .  .  ."  He  left 
his  explanation  hanging  in  the  air,  but  he  had  said 
enough. 

"  But  you  can't  mean  to  say  that  you  were  really 
in  love  with  a  little  girl  of  fourteen,"  Margaret  said, 
"  whom  you'd  never  spoken  to  and  hardly  ever 
looked  at." 

"  I  suppose  that  I'd  always  known  you  were 
there,"  Stephen  replied,  and  by  that  one  uncon- 
sidered sentence  stated  his  whole  case. 

To  Margaret,  that  statement  came  as  a  revelation, 
a  revelation  for  which  she  was  not  prepared.  She 
had  been  living  a  gay,  exciting,  unnatural  life  for  the 
past  three  years.  She  had  been  flattered  and  spoiled. 
But  within  her  the  longing  for  an  ideal  had  moved 
deeply,  and  powerfully,  and  she  had  had  no  image 
for  it.  Her  innumerable  triflings  with  love  had  in- 
variably ended  in  boredom;  and  in  the  course  of  the 
last  twelve  months  she  had  been  strongly  influenced 
by  the  opinions  of  her  younger  sister  who  had  been 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       263 

preaching  the  current  doctrine  of  sex  antagonism  and 
denouncing  the  exploitation  of  women  by  men. 

But,  now,  in  a  sudden  flash  of  inspiration,  Mar- 
garet saw  the  resolution  of  her  own  personal  dissat- 
isfactions. She  knew  that  for  her,  also,  some  one 
"  had  always  been  there."  She  recognized  him  by 
the  fact  that  he,  too,  knew,  and  the  thought  of  that 
thrilled  her  with  the  ecstatic  emotions  of  discovery. 
She  suddenly  saw  Stephen's  adoration  for  her  as  an 
expression  of  the  Great  Romance,  of  the  longing  and 
dreaming  that  can  only  be  completed  by  finding  the 
longed  for  companion  in  the  perfect  flesh ;  and  learn- 
ing that  they  have  dreamt  the  same  dreams  in  their 
own  solitudes. 

Her  reply  was  not  less  spontaneous  than  Stephen's 
statement. 

11  Do  you  know  Kipling's  story  '  The  Brushwood 
Boy  '  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head,  and  for  the  moment  the  liaison 
of  their  spirits  was  broken.  She  was  disappointed. 
He  ought  to  have  known  that  reference,  she  thought, 
and  failed  to  realize  that  his  ignorance  of  the  liter- 
ary precedent  enhanced  the  value  of  the  romance, 
since  he  had  created  the  story  anew  by  his  own  genius. 

Stephen,  on  his  side,  misread  her  question  as  an 
attempt  to  divert  their  conversation  from  the  inti- 
mate confessions  into  which  he  had  been  led. 

11  Oh !  you  ought  to  read  that,"  she  said  care- 
lessly. "  But  I  suppose  you  don't  have  much  time 
for  reading." 

"  I  haven't  lately,"  he  admitted;  and  by  an  abrupt 
transition  which  neither  of  them  could  understand 
they  found  that  all  the  life  had  gone  out  of  their 
intercourse  and  that  they  were,  apparently,  com- 
mitted to  the  banalities  of  polite  conversation. 


264       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

It  was  almost  a  relief  to  them  when  the  patient 
Fletton  Hall  at  last  came  across  to  them  to  claim 
the  interview. 

"  Awfully  sorry,  Miss  Weatherley,"  he  said,  "  but 
I'm  afraid  I  must  go  in  another  few  minutes.  I've 
got  an  engagement  for  dinner  that  I  absolutely 
daren't  break;  even  for.  .  .  ."  His  smile  and  ges- 
ture more  than  completed  his  sentence,  making  the 
compliment  a  trifle  fulsome. 

11  Some  other  day,  perhaps,"  Margaret  suggested 
coldly. 

Hall  was  obviously  taken  aback.  "  But  I  say, 
Miss  Weatherley,  you  promised,"  he  protested. 
11  And,  honestly,  it  is  rather  important,  isn't  it?  " 

11  Is  it?"  Margaret  said  absently. 

11  Well,  tremendously  important  to  me,  at  any 
rate,"  he  pleaded,  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  hold  the 
promise  of  tears. 

Margaret  looked  at  him  with  an  immense  detach- 
ment, as  if  she  were  unable  at  the  moment  to  con- 
centrate her  attention  on  his  pleadings. 

"  I  can't  see  that  it  has  anything  to  do  with  me," 
she  said. 

"  But  the  play  is  to  be  written  for  you,"  he  remon- 
strated. 

Margaret  shook  her  head.  M  Don't  write  it  for 
me,"  she  said.  "  I've  practically  decided  to  give  up 
all  idea  of  going  on  the  stage.  Miss  Crantock  is 
quite  right.  She  has  told  me  I  shall  never  be  able 
to  act." 

"  But  I  thought  it  was  all  arranged,"  protested 
Hall  with  a  gasp  of  dismay,  and  he  looked  at  Stephen 
with  a  sudden  malignity,  as  if  he  had  little  doubt  who 
was  responsible  for  this  perfidy. 

"  Well,  now  it's  disarranged,  Mr.  Hall,"  Mar- 
garet replied  with  a  touch  of  petulance.     "  I'm  sorry 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       265 

if  it  has  put  you  out  in  any  way,  but  it's  absurd  to 
pretend  that  the  success  of  the  play  depends  upon 
me.  You  must  write  it  for  some  one  else,  that's 
all  —  some  one  who  can  act." 

Hall  made  it  as  clear  as  he  could  that  he  was 
deeply  offended.  "  Oh,  of  course,  if  you've  made  up 
your  mind,  Miss  Weatherley,  that  settles  it,"  he 
said.  "  I  can  only  apologize  for  having  bothered 
you.  I'm  afraid  I  must  really  be  going,  now. 
Good-by." 

He  bowed  neatly  to  Margaret,  stared  for  a  mo- 
ment vindictively  at  Stephen,  and  walked  stiffly  out 
of  the  room  with  his  head  up. 

Grace  Weatherley  had  already  gone,  and  Mar- 
garet and  Stephen  were  left  alone. 

"  You're  quite  right.  He's  a  silly  little  man," 
she  said.  "  I'm  sorry  if  I  was  rude  to  him,  but  I 
know  such  hundreds  of  silly  little  men,  and  one  has 
to  be  —  definite." 

"Oh!  yes,"  Stephen  agreed  without  interest. 
Young  Hall  had  ceased  to  exist  for  him. 

"  I  ought  to  be  going  too,  I  suppose?  "  he  went 
on  after  a  perceptible  pause. 

"Must  you?"  was  Margaret's  conventional  re- 
sponse. On  the  whole  she  wanted  to  keep  him  a 
little  longer;  she  had  already  realized  that  the  fact 
of  his  not  having  read  the  Kipling  Story  was,  if  any- 
thing a  point  in  his  favor;  but  she  was  afraid  to  give 
him  too  much  encouragement.  Now  that  she  was 
alone  with  him  in  that  big  empty  room,  she  had  a 
feeling  of  being  exposed  and  insecure. 

"  Yes,  I'd  better,"  Stephen  said  and  stood  up;  and 
even  as  he  spoke,  Margaret  knew  that  her  fear  had 
been  foolish,  the  outcome  of  her  too  limited  expe- 
rience. With  this  man,  she  would  be  safe  in  any 
conceivable  circumstances. 


266       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"  There's  no  reason  why  you  should  go,  as  far  as 
I'm  concerned,"  she  said,  getting  up  too.  "  I  ex- 
pect my  aunt  will  be  back  directly." 

Stephen  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  they  automati- 
cally moved  away  from  the  seclusion  of  their  corner 
into  the  open  spaces  of  the  room. 

11  I've  nothing  particular  to  do,"  he  said  suddenly, 
when  they  were  half  way  to  the  door. 

"  Well,  wait  a  few  minutes,  then,"  Margaret  re- 

f)lied.  She  stopped  in  her  walk  as  she  spoke  and 
eaned  against  the  back  of  a  settee. 

11  It's  only  that  I  want  to  ask  you  one  question," 
Stephen  said,  standing  before  her.  "  Were  you  of- 
fended, just  now,  when  you  asked  me  if  I'd  read  that 
story  of  Kipling's?  Was  it  just  to  change  the  con- 
versation?    I  didn't  mean.   .   .  ." 

Margaret  blushed  furiously.  "No;  you  didn't 
understand,"  she  interrupted  him.  "  And  I  can't 
tell  you,  now.  You'd  better  get  the  book  and  read 
it.  Then  you  will  know  what  I  meant.  But  I  think 
perhaps  it  might  be  as  well  if  you  did  go,  now.  Will 
you?" 

She  gave  him  her  hand  with  the  full  intention  of 
returning  the  pressure  she  expected;  but  he  took  it 
with  a  reverence  that  made  her  a  trifle  ashamed  of 
her  anticipation.  She  ought  to  have  known,  she 
thought,  that  he  would  never  attempt  to  flirt  with 
her. 


When  he  left  Bryanston  Square,  Stephen  made 
straight  for  the  nearest  bookshop  in  Oxford  Street. 
He  remembered  seeing  several  volumes  of  Kipling 
in  his  mother's  shelves,  but  he  could  not  wait  until 
he  reached  Bloomsbury.  Moreover  it  was  quite 
possible  that  this  particular  story  might  not  be  in- 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       267 

eluded  in  Cecilia's  collection,  and  in  that  case  he 
would  have  to  wait  until  Monday  before  he  received 
Margaret's  message.  The  thought  of  that  threat- 
ened delay  so  terrified  him  that  he  broke  into  a  run. 
He  reached  the  bookshop,  just  as  the  assistant  was 
about  to  lock  the  door  —  the  shutters  were  already 
down. 

"  Oh !  I'm  sorry,"  Stephen  said  breathlessly. 
"  Just  a  minute.  There's  a  book  I  very  particularly 
want,  if  you  don't  mind." 

The  assistant  had  caught  sight  of  Stephen  running 
down  Oxford  Street,  and  had  paused  in  his  work  of 
closing  the  shop  to  watch  him.  It  seemed  to  him, 
now,  something  of  an  adventure  that  the  man  he  had 
watched  should  have  been  coming  to  his  own  shop. 
';  What  book  was  it?"  he  asked,  and  even  as  he 
spoke  his  mind  was  tentatively  exploring  his  stock, 
trying  vainly  to  guess  what  sort  of  book  it  could  be 
that  should  tempt  a  man  to  run  so  fast. 

"  A  story  of  Kipling's  called  '  The  Brushwood 
Boy,'  "  Stephen  said  eagerly.     "  Have  you  got  it?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure,"  the  assistant  replied,  backing  into 
the  darkened  shop  and  switching  on  the  light. 
"  D'you  know  which  collection  it's  in?  "  Probably 
to  settle  some  bet,  was  the  conclusion  to  which  he 
had  conventionally  and  disappointingly  arrived. 

11  No  notion,"  Stephen  said. 

"  Here's  the  Macmillan  pocket  edition,"  the  as- 
sistant went  on,  pointing  to  a  shelf  in  a  big  show  case. 
"  If  the  story  is  in  one  of  the  usual  collections,  it 
ought  to  be  there." 

Stephen  instantly  began  his  search,  not  methodi- 
cally but  with  an  eagerness  that  seriously  threatened 
the  clinging  leaves  of  an  India  paper  edition. 

"  It  couldn't  be  in  that,  you  know,"  the  assistant 
advised  him  as  he  began  to  flutter  the  pages  of 


268       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"  Kim."  "  That's  a  'ole  book.  What  we've  got  to 
look  in  is  the  collection  of  short  stories.  What  did 
you  say  the  name  was?  " 

Stephen  supplied  the  name. 

"  You  don't  know  what  it's  about?  "  the  assistant 
asked.  He  had  begun  to  believe  himself  mistaken 
about  the  bet. 

"  No  idea,  at  all,"  Stephen  muttered,  running 
down  the  list  of  contents  of  "  Life's  Handicap." 

"  Here  it  is !  "  the  assistant  answered  triumph- 
antly. "  Last  story  in  '  The  Day's  Work.'  Shall 
I  wrap  it  up  for  you?  " 

Stephen's  face  cleared.  M  No,  no,  rather  not. 
Thanks  very  much,"  he  said,  paid  the  three-shillings 
and  six-pence  demanded  on  the  paper  wrapper,  and 
fled,  leaving  the  assistant  to  take  down  another  copy 
of  M  The  Day's  Work  "  to  read  at  home  that  even- 
ing. He  was  under  thirty,  and  still  full  of  human 
curiosity.  The  theory  he  formulated  a  few  hours 
later  was  near  enough  to  the  truth.  "  Some  girl,  I 
suppose,"  he  commented,  and  afterwards  dreamt  his 
own  dreams. 

Stephen,  neglecting  the  dinner  he  had  ordered  in  a 
neighboring  restaurant,  was  almost  confounded  by 
the  wonder  of  his  dream,  now,  so  astoundingly  tak- 
ing the  substance  of  reality.  He  realized  the  appli- 
cation of  the  story  as  soon  as  he  reached  the  account 
of  Georgie's  visit  to  the  "  Pepper's  Ghost  "  enter- 
tainment in  Oxford  and  the  consummation  made  him 
catch  his  breath,  and  hastily  bend  his  head  to  hide  the 
evidences  of  his  emotion. 

There  were  immense  differences  between  that 
romance  of  "  The  Brushwood  Boy  "  and  his  own 
case.  He  could  not  claim  the  supernatural  guid- 
ances of  a  shared  dream.  But  neither  could  he  mis- 
take the  clear  and  exquisite  message  that  had  been 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER        269 

conveyed  to  him.  "  I  had  always  known  you  were 
there,"  he  had  said  to  her,  and  she  had  replied  by 
asking  him  if  he  had  ever  read  this  story.  She 
could  have  meant  but  one  thing,  surely;  that  she,  too, 
had  known  he  was  there  and  had  waited  for  him. 

The  glory  of  that  unquestionable  inference  was,  at 
first,  something  too  bright  for  him.  He  dared  not 
let  his  thought  rest  on  her,  almost  terrifying  as  she 
now  was  with  new  possibilities.  While  she  had  been 
removed  from  him  both  by  her  beauty  and  position, 
he  had  been  protected  by  the  knowledge  of  his  own 
inferiority.  He  could  not  then  be  guilty  of  pre- 
sumption. The  meanest  postulant  has  a  right  to 
worship;  and  he  had  not  aspired  to  make  even  the 
smallest  petition  for  favor.  But  her  message  —  lie 
could  only  regard  it  as  a  message  —  had  lifted  him 
from  his  knees  and  set  him  beside  her.  And  the 
transition  had  been  too  sudden.  He  trembled  with 
nervousness  at  the  thought  of  their  next  meeting. 
What  could  he  say  to  her,  how  could  he  look  at 
her?  He  was  so  depressingly  aware  of  his  own 
coarseness  and  inferiority.  He  laid  his  strong  work- 
man's hands  on  the  table  and  shuddered  at  the  sight 
of  them.  He  was  ashamed  of  himself.  He  had 
wild  thoughts  of  running  away.   .  .  . 

When  he  had  paid  for  the  dinner  he  had  not 
eaten,  he  set  out  for  a  long  walk.  He  could  think 
more  calmly  while  he  was  walking.  He  turned  his 
face  to  the  west,  and  went  down  the  Bayswater  Road, 
through  Notting  Hill  and  Chiswick  to  Kew.  Some- 
times he  walked  very  softly,  approaching  the  mystery 
of  Margaret's  personality  in  thought;  and  then  he 
would  flush  hotly  at  his  own  daring  and  stride  along 
so  furiously  that  people  would  turn  to  look  curiously 
after  him. 

He  was  completely  unaware  of  his  surroundings. 


270       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

It  was  as  if  the  ordinary  processes  of  his  being  had 
interchanged  their  functions.  His  conscious  mind, 
absorbed  by  a  single  idea,  had  withdrawn  from  the 
duties  of  everyday  life,  and  his  safe  guidance  through 
the  traffic  and  hazards  of  London  was  relegated  to 
the  power  that  will  steer  a  somnambulist  unerringly 
along  the  edge  of  an  abyss. 

But  gradually,  his  thought,  and  with  it  his  whole 
being,  began  to  right  itself.  Some  misconceived, 
slightly  aborted  tangle  of  his  life  was  clearing  and 
dissolving  with  every  approach  to  his  realization  of 
Margaret.  Although  he,  himself,  was  serenely  un- 
aware of  the  fact,  he  was  separating  his  conception 
of  her  from  that  of  his  mother ;  and  with  that  separa- 
tion, the  strange  dread  that  had  interposed  between 
him  and  his  human  desire  for  Margaret  was  slowly 
dispersing.  His  head  lifted  and  a  new  confidence 
came  into  his  walk.  The  sense  of  his  own  un- 
worthiness  began  rapidly  to  fade.  He  realized  him- 
self as  supremely  favored  among  men. 

He  came  back  to  a  vivid  knowledge  of  his  sur- 
roundings, on  the  middle  of  Kew  Bridge,  staring 
westward  at  the  sinking  fires  of  the  June  sunset.  In 
the  middle  distance  the  stain  of  rose  reflected  from 
the  sky  merged  into  the  black  greens  of  the  darkening 
river.  And  to  Stephen,  the  scene  had  an  effect  of 
resolving  some  prodigious  conflict.  The  smooth 
flow  of  the  slackening  flood,  softly  sucking  and 
gurgling  about  the  piers  took  up  the  same  suggestion 
of  consummation.  He  felt  himself  moving  with  the 
tide,  not  towards  rest  and  peace,  but  towards  some 
tense  and  trembling  climax  of  achievement. 

His  heart  cried  aloud  that  he  was  Margaret's 
lover:  and  a  free  man,  free  to  plead  and  to  woo. 

But  at  that  thought,  an  intolerable  desire  for  her 
presence  surged  over  him.     He  wanted  furiously  to 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       271 

explain  to  her  the  intricate  and  detaining  mysteries 
through  which  he  had  passed  to  reach  her.  She, 
alone,  would  be  able  to  understand  how  he  had 
groveled  at  her  feet,  and  why  he  was  now  ready  to 
stand  beside  her.  Had  she  not  admitted  her  knowl- 
edge of  the  fact  that  they  two  were  predestined  affini- 
ties ;  lovers  from  another  time,  magically  renewed  to 
continue  their  eternal  romance  in  this  exquisite  world 
of  form  and  color  ? 


The  realization  that  Margaret  would  be  at  the 
Auditorium  decided  Stephen  that  he  need  not  wait 
until  the  next  day  before  he  saw  her  again.  If  he 
had  had  to  storm  the  house  in  Bryanston  Square,  he 
might  have  hesitated.  Although  he  was  moving  on 
a  higher  plane  of  existence  that  evening,  his  judg- 
ment upon  the  little  affairs  of  common  humanity  was 
quickened  rather  than  impaired  by  his  translation. 
He  looked  down  upon  the  earth  with  an  exquisitely 
sensitive  understanding  of  all  mankind.  He  was 
God,  and  he  loved  all  men  and  women,  knowing  their 
weakness.  He  knew,  for  instance,  that  Dr.  Weath- 
erley  and  his  sister,  temporarily  blinded  by  the  petti- 
ness of  the  flesh,  would  resent  and  resist  an  attempt 
to  pick  Margaret  out  of  her  proper  surroundings  at 
ten  o'clock,  in  order  to  tell  her  that  he  and  she  were 
predestined  affinities.  But  he  could  see  her  after 
the  theater  without  opposition.  He  could  meet  her 
at  the  stage-door  and  they  would  drive  around 
Grosvenor  Square  while  he  told  her  everything  that 
he  had  in  his  heart  to  tell  her. 

He  corrected  one  egregious  mistake  in  that  plan, 
however,  as  he  ecstatically  pondered  the  detail  of  it 
on  the  tram  that  took  him  back  to  Hammersmith, 


272       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

They  must  not  drive  round  Grosvenor  Square;  that 
was  the  scene  of  his  reconciliation  with  his  mother; 
and  had  associations  that  he  instinctively  wished  to 
avoid.  No,  they  would  go  straight  back  to  Bryan- 
ston  Square  and  drive  round  that,  in  sight  of  her 
own  house,  under  her  father's  eye,  as  it  were.  By 
doing  that,  he  would  conciliate  the  petty  prejudices  of 
the  earth-bound,  who  could  not  be  expected  to  under- 
stand. 

He  reached  the  theater  soon  after  ten  and  an  in- 
quiry of  the  stage-door  keeper  who  seemed  quite 
used  to  the  question  put  to  him  and  evidently  ex- 
pected  a   tip,    elicited   the    information   that    Miss 

Winifred  Travers," —  as  Margaret  was  known  at 
the  Auditorium, —  would  not  leave  the  house  until 
a  quarter  past  eleven. 

The  delay  did  not  greatly  vex  Stephen.  He 
looked  forward  to  the  meeting  too  serenely  to  be 
annoyed  by  its  postponement  for  another  hour.  His 
spirit  moved  in  places  of  deep  and  tranquil  expecta- 
tion. Greater  joy  was  presently  to  come  to  him,  but 
the  anticipation  was  very  sweet. 

He  wandered  aimlessly  about  the  comparatively 
quiet  streets,  renewing  his  happiness  by  the  con- 
templation of  all  that  Margaret  had  implied  by  her 
message.  And  once  or  twice,  he  paused  near  an  arc 
lamp  and  reread  a  passage  here  and  there  from 
"  The  Brushwood  Boy." 

When  he  returned  to  the  theater,  the  audience  was 
already  thronging  the  pavement  about  the  portico; 
and  he  turned  with  a  sudden  haste  into  the  side 
street.  The  fear  that  he  might  miss  her  after  all 
came  with  a  shock  of  surprise.  His  dreams  had 
been  so  confident. 

There  was  a  little  group  of  men  and  women  round 
the  stage-door,  a  chattering  of  high-pitched,  feminine 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       273 

voices  and  a  clinging  aroma  of  scent.  But  Margaret 
was  not  a  member  of  that  group,  and  as  Stephen 
skirted  it,  it  began  rapidly  to  disperse  with  laughter 
and  the  exchange  of  shrill  repartee.  And  then  as 
Stephen  with  a  falling  heart  made  for  the  door, 
Margaret  came  out  talking  to  an  imposing-looking 
aristocrat  in  a  crush-hat  and  evening-dress. 

Stephen  had  not  considered  this  most  probable 
contingency,  but  he  did  not  hesitate.  Ignoring  her 
companion,  he  went  straight  up  to  Margaret.  "  I 
had  to  see  you  again,  to-night,"  he  said.  "  I 
couldn't  wait.  I've  read  i  The  Brushwood  Boy,' 
and  I  —  I  understand  everything." 

Margaret  took  a  step  backward  as  if  he  had 
threatened  her. 

"  Here,  what's  this?  "  her  companion  exclaimed, 
making  a  movement  as  if  to  interfere  between  them. 

The  haze  of  romance  through  which  Stephen  had 
been  observing  the  transfigured  pageant  of  the  world 
was  rapidly  thinning;  and  through  the  dissolving 
vapors  he  saw  Margaret's  face,  perplexed  and  doubt- 
ful, when  it  should  have  glowed  with  the  fervor  of 
the  response  he  had  so  faithfully  expected. 

"  Don't  you  understand?  "  he  besought  her,  en- 
tirely disregarding  her  companion's  tentative  effort 
to  come  between  them.  "  I've  read  your  —  your 
message  " —  his  hand  was  groping  at  his  jacket- 
pocket  as  if  he  would  produce  his  evidence  — "  and 
.   .   .   and  I  thought  .  .  ." 

His  voice  trailed  away  into  silence.  The  last 
wreath  of  mist  had  cleared  from  before  his  eyes,  and 
the  vividness  of  Margaret's  expression  and  gesture 
presented  a  reality  only  less  cruel  than  the  sound  of 
her  laugh. 

He  turned  away  with  a  quick  movement  that  con- 
veyed his  sense  of  horror.     Just  so  might  he  have 


274       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

fled,  if  some  lovely  fantasy  taking  shape  before  him 
had  instantly  and  revoltingly  developed  into  the 
image  of  the  foul  and  obscene.  He  was  stricken 
with  a  furious  passion  to  escape;  and  he  began  to  run 
even  as  he  had  run  seven  years  before,  from  the 
sound  of  a  laugh  which  seemed  to  him  now  to  have 
been  precisely  repeated. 

But,  this  time,  he  believed  that  he  could  never  es- 
cape by  flight;  that  Death  could  be  his  only  refuge. 
While  he  lived  he  could  never  forget,  nor  indeed 
cease  to  hear,  the  note  of  contempt  that  dinned  in 
his  ears, —  and  changed  to  high  hysterical  mockery, 
invading  and  surrounding  him,  till  he  felt  that  he 
must  beat  his  head  savagely  against  the  wall,  beat 
out  the  power  of  hearing  and  feeling,  beat  out  his 
very  life  to  escape  from  the  torture  of  that  madden- 
ing regardless  persecution. 


VII 


IT  was  nearly  midnight  when  Stephen  came  to  the 
door  of  the  Threlfall  house  in  Bedford  Square. 

The  necessity  for  seeing  his  mother  at  once  was 
quite  clear  in  his  mind,  although  he  had  no  definite 
idea  of  what  he  proposed  to  say  to  her.  She  repre- 
sented for  him,  just  then,  his  single  holdfast  on  life; 
and  so  far  as  he  was  capable  of  making  any  plan,  he 
had  decided  that  if  she  failed  him,  he  would  plunge 
himself  forthwith  into  the  darkness  and  rest  of  the 
unknown.  What  means  he  should  adopt  to  hasten 
his  crossing  of  the  great  boundary,  he  neither  knew 
nor  cared.  He  left  that  question  for  later  consider- 
ation. He  knew  that  he  could  do  it.  He  had  but 
to  recall  his  emotions  of  the  past  hour,  and  the  reso- 
lution of  despair  would  come  to  him.  Or  even 
the  thought  of  Margaret,  despising  him  and  in 
love  with  another  man,  would  be  sufficient.  His 
struggle  would  be  for  the  desire  to  live.  Death 
would  be  welcome,  and  easy  of  attainment.  .   .   . 

Christopher  Threlfall  opened  the  door.  He  was 
in  evening  dress  and  looked  tired  and  worried. 

"Hullo!  Is  it  you?"  he  exclaimed.  "Cecilia 
gave  you  up  an  hour  ago."  He  stood  in  the  door- 
way and  apparently  had  no  intention  of  asking 
Stephen  to  come  in. 

I  want  to  see  her,"  Stephen  said.     He  felt  that 
275 


276       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

he  could  not  be  bothered  with  Threlfall  just  now, 
and  gave  his  sentence  the  sound  of  a  command. 

"  Rather  late,  isn't  it?  "  Threlfall  asked.  "  I  ex- 
pect she  has  gone  to  bed." 

11  May  I  come  in?  I  must  see  her,"  Stephen  re- 
plied, impatiently.  "  Can't  you  see  that  it's  im- 
portant? " 

Threlfall  shrugged  his  shoulders  hastily.  M  If 
you  must,  of  course,"  he  said  as  if  he  nevertheless 
regretted  Stephen's  lack  of  manner. 

1  Where  shall  I  find  her?  "  Stephen  asked  as  he 
came  into  the  hall. 

11  She  was  in  her  own  room,  upstairs,"  Threlfall 
replied,  "  but  I  should  say  that  she's  probably  in  bed, 
now."  He  closed  the  hall  door  and  went  into  his 
own  study  on  the  ground  floor,  with  the  air  of  re- 
fusing to  be  implicated  any  further  in  so  uncon- 
ventional and  ill-bred  an  affair. 

Stephen  went  straight  up  to  his  mother's  bou- 
doir, and  walked  in  without  knocking.  He  was 
quite  sure  that  he  would  find  her  there.  What  he 
still  doubted  was  her  welcome. 

She  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  facing 
the  door  when  he  entered. 

"What  is  it,  Stephen?  What  has  happened?" 
she  asked  before  he  had  time  to  speak.  I  heard 
the  bell  ring,  and  I  knew  it  was  you." 

There  was  a  note  of  agitation  and  distress  in  her 
voice,  but  her  eyes  shone  with  a  light  that,  in  some 
way,  suggested  triumph. 

I  had  to  come  and  see  you,"  Stephen  said. 

Cecilia  was  watching  him  intently.  She  guessed 
that  there  could  be  but  one  reason  for  his  coming  at 
that  time  and  with  this  mark  of  tragedy  in  his  face; 
but  she  was  uncertain,  as  yet,  of  the  nature  of  his 
wound.     He  was,  she  knew,  one  of  those  who  would 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       277 

take  their  first  love  seriously,  perhaps  tragically. 
And  it  might  be  that  he  had  suffered  no  more  than 
a  scratch,  had  mistaken  some  indifference  or  feminine 
whim  of  Margaret's  for  the  ultimate  disaster. 

11  Come  and  tell  me  all  about  it,  little  boy,"  she 
said  gently.  "  We  sha'n't  be  interrupted."  She 
shut  and  locked  the  door,  herself,  and  then  took  his 
arm  and  led  him  across  the  room.  She  had  an  air  of 
petting  and  protecting  him,  as  if  he  were  an  invalid. 

"  Sit  at  my  feet,  Stephen,  as  you  used  to  do  and 
tell  me  all  about  it,"  she  said  softly,  humoring  and 
soothing  him.  And  when  she  had  sat  down  and 
Stephen,  silent  still  but  obedient  to  her  will,  was  sit- 
ting on  a  footstool  at  her  knee,  she  did  not  urge  him 
to  begin  his  story,  but  waited  quietly  in  an  attentive 
silence,  gently  smoothing  and  fondling  his  hair. 

"  You  won't  mind  my  telling  you  everything?  "  he 
began,  after  a  long  pause.  Already,  he  felt  soothed 
and  comforted,  but  as  her  influence  increased  about 
him,  the  memory  of  his  boyhood  aroused  old  habits 
of  caution.  She  was  going  to  be  nice  to  him,  but 
even  her  softest  moods  sometimes  gave  way  under 
provocation. 

11  Tell  me  everything,  dear,"  she  said.  "  Of 
course  I  can  guess  most  of  it.  But  have  you  actually 
said  anything  to  Margaret?  So  soon?  Wasn't 
that  too  —  too  precipitate?  " 

"  In  a  way,  I  have,"  he  admitted.  "  Only  not  the 
usual  way,  quite.  You  see,  we  talked  this  afternoon 
quite  a  lot  —  we  were  practically  alone  in  the  draw- 
ing-room; and  we  got  back  to  the  subject  of  the 
King's  School  and  her  smiling  at  me.  And  then  I 
said, —  I  don't  remember  just  how  it  came  in  —  that 
I  had  always  known  she  was  there,  and  she  asked  me 
if  I  had  ever  read  '  The  Brushwood  Boy.'  Do  you 
know  it,  mother?  " 


1 


278       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

11  Yes,  I  know  it,  dear;  go  on!  "  she  said. 
#  "  Well,  I  didn't  know  it,"  he  continued.  "  But 
directly  I  left  her,  I  went  and  bought  a  copy,  and 
then  I  thought  —  oh !  I  felt  sure  that  there  couldn't 
be  any  doubt  about  it.  Wouldn't  any  one?  I  felt 
as  if  she  had  sent  me  a  message  to  say  that  she  — 
cared,  too." 

"  And  how  do  you  know  that  she  doesn't?  "  Cecilia 
asked. 

11  I  went  to  meet  her  as  she  came  out  of  the 
theater,"  Stephen  said.  "  And  I  saw  her  come  out. 
She  was  with  another  man."  He  stopped  abruptly. 
He  had  been  calm  enough  in  his  telling  of  the  story 
until  then.  It  had  all  seemed  to  him  so  remote  in 
time  from  his  present  life,  like  the  memory  of  some 
far  away  disaster  from  which  he  had  mercifully  es- 
caped. But,  now,  all  his  pain  began  to  burn  him 
again.  He  gave  a  little  groan  and  leaned  forward, 
hiding  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  But,  Stephen,"  Cecilia  protested,  "  that  might 
not  have  meant  anything." 

11  Oh!  not  in  itself;  but  I  know — "  he  muttered. 

11  Did  you  speak  to  her?  " 

11  Tried  to,"  he  said.  "  She  didn't  answer  —  at 
least  .  .  ." 

"What?     What  did  she  do?" 

He  had  to  make  a  violent  effort  to  tell  her,  but 
once  the  fatal  word  had  been  uttered,  his  bonds  were 
loosed  and  all  that  was  scalding  and  destroying  him 
burst  forth.  "  She  —  she  laughed,"  he  said.  And 
then  he  jumped  to  his  feet,  and  went  on,  facing  his 
mother.  "  Not  just  an  ordinary  laugh  —  a  horrible, 
cruel  laugh.  It  was  exactly  like  your  laugh  when  I 
begged  you  not  to  go  away  with  Dr.  Threlf all ;  that 
night  in  the  Lincoln  Road.  It  nearly  drove  me  mad. 
I  had  to  run  to  get  away  from  it.     And  to-night,  it 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       279 

was  just  the  same.  I  couldn't  bear  it.  I  —  I 
wanted  to  bang  my  head  against  the  walls." 

11  Oh !  Stephen !  "  Cecilia's  outcry  was  so  emo- 
tional that  the  sound  of  it  arrested  the  growing  vio- 
lence of  his  confession. 

"  What?  Why  did  you  call  out  like  that?"  he 
asked. 

She  was  sitting,  tense  and  scared,  staring  at  him 
with  an  expression  that  was  at  once  amazed  and 
terrified. 

"  You  couldn't  possibly  remember,"  she  said,  and 
drew  a  deep,  upholding  breath.  The  fear  was  dying 
out  of  her  face,  but  the  look  of  wonder  remained. 
"  Oh !  it  isn't  possible,"  she  exclaimed.  "  It  couldn't 
be  that." 

"  Couldn't  be  what?  "  he  asked  with  an  echo  of 
her  recent  alarm  in  his  voice.  He  had  instantly 
leapt  to  the  conclusion  that  she  had  guessed  at  some 
horrible  explanation  of  Margaret's  rejection  of  him, 
that  she  knew  some  damning  fact  of  which  he  was 
ignorant. 

"  Sit  down  again,  Stephen,"  his  mother  begged 
him.  "  I'll  tell  you.  It  can't  hurt  you,  now.  But 
I've  never  told  any  one,  before.  No  one  knows  but 
you  and  me ;  and  you've  forgotten." 

He  sat  down  again  at  her  feet  and  stared  up  at 
her  with  an  eager  dread.  She  was  quite  calm,  now, 
but  that  look  of  curious  wonder  still  remained  on  her 
face. 

"  What  is  it,  mother?  "  he  asked  apprehensively. 

11  Perhaps,  it  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  it,"  she 
said.  "  But  when  you  talked  about  my  laughing  and 
your  wanting  to  bang  your  head  against  the  wall,  it 
brought  everything  back  to  me,  so  vividly.  It 
seemed  just  as  if  it  were  happening  all  over 
again." 


280       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

Stephen  shivered  slightly.  "Again?"  he  re- 
peated. 

"  You  were  only  three,  darling,"  Cecilia  explained. 
11  Just  a  little  bit  of  a  toddling  thing,  with  a  funny 
temper  of  your  own  that  used  to  amuse  me.  I've 
seen  you  bite  a  cupboard  door  in  your  little  rage  be- 
cause you  couldn't  get  it  open.  And  one  day  for 
some  reason,  I  quite  forget  what,  you  got  in  one  of 
your  rages  with  me,  and  I  began  to  laugh  at  you. 
I  began  to  laugh,  just  because  it  was  really  funny  to 
see  such  a  mite  attacking  me  so  viciously;  but  the 
more  I  laughed  the  more  angry  you  were,  and  at  last 
I  got  absolutely  hysterical  and  I  simply  could  not 
stop.  And  then  quite  suddenly,  you  ran  away  from 
me,  and  began  to  bang  your  head  against  the  wall. 
That  stopped  me  at  once.  It  was  dreadful  to  see 
you  doing  it,  and  I  jumped  up  and  caught  hold  of 
you.  But  either  you  had  really  banged  your  head 
hard  enough  to  hurt  yourself,  or  you  had  some  kind 
of  fit;  whatever  it  was,  you  went  as  white  as  a  ghost 
when  I  took  you  up  and  for  ten  minutes  or  more,  you 
were  just  like  a  dead  thing.  I  —  I  thought  you  were 
going  to  die.   .   .  ." 

Stephen  had  closed  his  eyes,  and  as  she  paused  he 
said  in  a  low,  still  voice,  "  And  afterwards,  you  were 
angry  with  me  for  having  frightened  you." 

Stephen!     Do  you  remember  it?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  do,  now,"  he  said,  in  the  same  calm,  remote 
tone,  and  still  keeping  his  eyes  shut.  "  It's  like 
something  that's  happening  at  the  present  moment. 
I  can  see  the  pattern  on  the  wall  paper  where  I 
banged  my  head.  There  was  a  sort  of  diamond 
shape  on  it,  and  I  thought  it  was  really  sharp  and 
would  run  into  me.  I've  dreamt  of  that  diamond 
shaped  thing,  but  I  never  knew  what  it  was  before. 
And  I  can  hear  your  laugh.     It  was  like  a  thousand 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       281 

devils  persecuting  me ;  it  was  the  most  hateful  thing 
in  the  world.  I  felt  that  if  I  couldn't  get  away  from 
it,  I  must  go  mad." 

"  Stephen,  don't,"  Cecilia  besought  him.  She  laid 
her  hand  over  his  mouth  to  check  his  speech;  and 
then  she  leaned  right  over  him,  and  pressed  her  face 
against  his  head.  "Can't  you  forgive  me?"  she 
whispered.  "  It  was  silly  of  me  to  laugh  at  you,  but 
I  couldn't  help  it  at  the  beginning  and  afterwards  I 
couldn't  stop." 

He  did  not  shrink  from  her  caress.  "  I  can  for- 
give you  for  that  easily  enough,"  he  said  tenderly. 
"  It  was  the  second  time  that  really  hurt  me." 

"  But  that.  .  .  ."  she  began,  and  checked  herself 
with  a  faint  gasp  of  realization. 

For  in  that  moment,  she  understood  the  choice 
that  lay  before  her.  Even  as  her  mind  returned  to 
the  scene  on  that  fateful  evening  in  the  Lincoln  Road, 
seeking  the  true  explanation  of  her  refusal  of  Ste- 
phen's advances,  she  understood  not  only  how  her 
own  laugh  had  been  forced  from  her  by  her  very  love 
for  Stephen,  but,  also,  that  Margaret,  too,  loved 
him. 

She  saw  the  two  cases  as  influenced  by  identical 
motives.  She  had  desired  that  freedom  of  oppor- 
tunity, that  larger  life  which  her  love  for  Stephen 
would  have  forbidden;  and  she  read  into  Margaret's 
response  the  stirring  of  a  precisely  similar  impulse. 
For  Margaret,  the  admission  of  love  could  only 
mean  a  marriage  that  would  confine  her  within  the 
boundaries  of  a  very  limited  world;  and  she  had,  no 
doubt,  reacted  in  face  of  that  threatened  limitation 
just  as  Cecilia  had  done  before  her. 

And  with  that,  as  she  believed,  certain  knowledge 
to  guide  her,  Cecilia  instantly  recognized  the  altern- 
atives between  which  she  must  make  her  choice. 


282       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

On  the  one  hand  she  might  explain  to  Stephen  the 
quality  and  influences^  of  the  emotion  that  had 
swayed  her  to  repulse  him,  and  by  so  doing  encourage 
him  even  to  the  sure  hope  of  winning  Margaret. 
11  If  you  had  persisted,  you  would  have  won  me," 
she  heard  herself  saying,  "  and  you  can  win  her,  too, 
if  you  want  her."  And  in  imagination  she  saw  the 
light  of  happiness  coming  into  Stephen's  face,  at  the 
prospect  of  a  joy  that  would,  as  she  knew,  finally 
separate  him  from  herself. 

On  the  other  hand,  she  might  say  nothing  and  keep 
him;  now,  when  she  so  desperately  wanted  him. 
The  chances  were  that  he  would  not  meet  Margaret 
again.  She  had  crossed  her  Rubicon  with  the  re- 
jection of  him  outside  the  theater,  and  would  go  on 
to  the  attainment  of  her  personal  ambitions;  while 
he  was  too  convinced  of  her  contempt  for  him  to 
dare  any  further  pursuit.  .  .  . 

"  What  were  you  going  to  say?  "  Stephen  asked, 
looking  up  at  her  with  a  touch  of  wistfulness,  as  if 
he  were  very  willing  to  accept  any  explanation  she 
might  have  to  offer. 

Oh !  my  dear,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  think  you 
must  be  too  hard  on  me  for  what  happened  that 
night.  Think  what  an  awful  state  of  nerves  I  was 
in.  My  laugh  was  simply  hysteria.  When  you  be- 
gan to  plead  to  me,  it  just  put  the  last  touch  to  it 
all.  I  was  crying  before  you  were  well  out  of  the 
room." 

He  nodded,  thoughtfully,  seeming  to  tick  off  her 
answer  to  every  indictment  he  could  bring,  and  ap- 
proving the  defense. 

"  I  can  understand  it  all,  now"  he  said.  "  It 
looks  quite  different.  I  feel  as  if  what  you  told  me 
about  that  first  time,  at  home,  explains  everything. 
I'm  glad  I've  remembered  that,  somehow.     It's  — 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       283 

it's  rather  like  waking  from  a  bad  dream,  and  finding 
it  isn't  true." 

He  put  up  his  face  to  be  kissed,  much  as.  he  might 
have  done  twenty  years  earlier. 

After  that  caress  they  sat  in  silence  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  Cecilia's  imperative  need  for  the 
response  she  desired  from  him  led  her  on  to  con- 
fession. 

"  We're  neither  of  us  very  happy  people,  to-night, 
Stephen,"  she  began;  "  but  we've  got  each  other 
again,  haven't  we?  We  can  find  no  end  of  consola- 
tion in  that." 

He  sighed  as  if  the  thought  of  his  own  unhappi- 
ness  had  been  revived  by  her  speech.  u  It  all  looks 
just  a  blank,"  he  said,  "  so  far  as  I'm  concerned.  I 
loathe  the  idea  of  going  back  to  the  works,  on  Mon- 
day. I  think  I  shall  go  abroad,  emigrate  to  Canada 
or  Australia  or  some  place  like  that." 

"  You'll  take  me  with  you,  Stephen,  won't  you?  " 
Cecilia  replied,  intent  on  her  own  trouble. 

"  But,  mother,"  he  expostulated,  "  you  don't  mean 
that  there's  anything  really  wrong  between  you  and 
—  and  Dr.  Threlfall,  do  you?" 

She  gave  a  little  contemptuous  laugh.  "  Oh !  my 
dear,"  she  said.  "  Everything's  just  as  wrong  as  it 
can  possibly  be  —  has  been  for  three  years  or  more. 
I'm  an  old  woman,  and  he's  clever  and  handsome 
and  attractive,  and  cursed  by  a  temperament.  He 
was  a  widower  when  he  met  me,  of  course,  and  his 
first  wife  hadn't  been  his  first  love;  and  there  were 
others  between  her  and  me.  And,  well,"  she 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  "  I've  let  him  go  his  own 
way  for  the  last  three  years." 

Stephen  jumped  to  his  feet.  "  Good  God,  he 
ought  to  be  horsewhipped,"  he  said  fiercely. 

Cecilia  smiled  and  pursed  her  lips.     "  Oh !  no," 


284       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

she  said.  "  It  was  my  own  fault.  I  might  have 
known  what  to  expect.  And  he  cares  for  me  still, 
in  a  way.  He  doesn't  want  me  to  leave  him.  He's 
always  making  promises."  She  sighed  her  long  re- 
gret for  the  feeble  possibilities  of  life,  as  she  con- 
tinued, "  One  can't  have  it  both  ways,  Stephen. 
Your  poor  little  father  adored  me  utterly,  and  I 
despised  him  for  it.  Now.  .  .  ."  she  broke  off 
with  a  gesture  that  did  not  too  clearly  display  the 
alternative. 

"  But  do  you  care  for  him,  still?  "  Stephen  asked, 
underlining  her  omission. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  care  for  or  what  I  want," 
she  said  with  a  touch  of  passion;  "  except  that  I 
want  to  live.  There's  this  play,  for  instance;  it's 
practically  settled  and  I  shall  make  a  success  of  it." 
She  got  up  and  began  to  move  restlessly  about  the 
room  as  she  spoke,  turning  to  Stephen,  now  and 
again,  to  make  her  points.  "  Well,  that's  living,  at 
moments.  One  gets  applause  and  admiration,  and 
it's  like  drink  or  drugs,  at  the  time.  Afterwards 
one  has  the  usual  reaction.  It  doesn't  really  satisfy 
me,  and  I  know  it,  but  I  must  do  something,  before 
I'm  burnt  out.  I  was  shut  up  so  long.  Just  think 
of  alL those  years  at  Medboro',  Stephen.  Is  it  any 
wonder  that  I've  wanted  to  crowd  a  lifetime  into  the 
years  since  I  came  away?  .  .  .  But  now  —  oh!  I 
don't  know.  I  can  see  the  futility  of  it,  sometimes. 
There's  no  satisfaction  in  it,  nothing  real  for  a 
woman  of  forty-eight,  because  one  daren't  look  for- 
ward. Suppose  I  do  make  a  success  of  the  part,  it 
can't  last.  And,  besides,  I  don't  want  to  be  tied  to 
the  stage  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  I  should  get  bored 
with  it,  I  know  I  should,  in  a  year  or  two  —  espe- 
cially as,  at  the  best,  I  can  only  hope  to  be  quite  a 
minor  star.     No,  I  want  a  real  occupation,  Stephen. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       285 

Something  that  will  absorb  me,  body  and  soul.  Do 
you  think  I  could  find  that  in  looking  after  you,  in 
the  wilds  of  Canada?  " 

"  I  doubt  it,"  Stephen  said  solemnly. 

11  Why?  "  she  asked,  coming  up  to  him,  and  put- 
ting her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  "  You  mean  more 
to  me  than  any  other  living  being.  And  I'm 
as  strong  as  a  horse.  I  could  work  at  whatever  one 
does  in  those  places,  making  bread  and  looking  after 
the  dairy  or  whatever  it  is." 

"  And  never  seeing  another  soul  from  one  month's 
end  to  the  next?  "  he  suggested. 

"  Oh!  you  don't  want  me,  that's  what  it  is,"  she 
replied  petulantly,  but  still  holding  him.  "  You 
want  to  go  and  brood  over  your  misery  in  solitude, 
and  I  sha'n't  let  you." 

14 1  don't,"  he  said,  but  he  looked  as  if  he  were 
near  the  edge  of  tears. 

"  Does  it  hurt  so  much?  "  she  asked. 

His  only  reply  was  to  put  his  arms  round  her  and 
hide  his  face  on  her  shoulder.  Her  talk  of  Canada 
had  shown  him  all  too  clearly  that  there  was  nc 
escape  for  him  by  that  way.  He  wanted  Margaret. 
With  her,  he  could  have  welcomed  any  solitude. 
But  Cecilia  was  no  longer  a  lover  to  him.  All  the 
tangle  of  his  thought  had  been  straightened  out; 
and  he  saw  her,  with  something  of  shame  at  his  own 
infidelity  but  something  also,  of  the  careless  arro- 
gance of  youth,  as  the  selfish,  rather  difficult  woman 
whose  one  claim  upon  him  was  the  fact  that  she  was 
his  mother. 

Cecilia  drew  herself  away  from  him.  "  It's  no 
good  pitying  yourself,  Stephen,"  she  said.  "  I  told 
you  it  was  hopeless  and  you  said  you  could  take  care 
of  yourself." 

I  could,  if  she  hadn't  let  me  think  that  she  cared 


286       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

for  me,"  he  returned,  turning  his  shoulder  to  her,  so 
that  she  might  not  see  the  evidences  of  what  she 
had  termed  his  self-pity. 

She  was  conscious  of  having  been  rebuffed,  al- 
though neither  his  words  nor  his  actions  had  given 
her  any  sensible  cause  for  that  feeling.  "  But  you 
surely  aren't  going  to  waste  your  life,  because  Mar- 
garet Weatherley  flirted  with  you,"  she  said  sharply. 

She  flirts  with  every  one.  I  fancy  that  Christopher 
has  had  quite  a  bad  heartache  on  her  account." 

uOh!  you  can't  understand,"  Stephen  said,  still 
with  his  back  to  her. 

Cecilia  flinched.  He  did  not  care.  She  no  longer 
had  any  influence  over  him.  She  saw  herself  and 
him  alone  together  in  the  wilds,  and  her  picture  of 
him  was  of  a  man  brooding  over  a  perpetual  sorrow. 
They  would  quarrel.  She  would  never  be  able  to 
endure  the  sight  of  his  unappeasable  longing  for  an- 
other woman. 

11 1  suppose  you  think  I'm  horribly  selfish,"  she 
said  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment. 

Stephen  slowly  lifted  his  head  and  turned  to  look 
at  her.  u  I  didn't  mean  that,  mother,"  he  said.  "  I 
only  meant  that  you'd  never  be  able  to  understand 
how  I  feel  about  —  about  this." 

"Why  shouldn't  I?"  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  why,"  he  said.  He  had  an  in- 
stinctive desire  to  spare  her.  He  felt  that  he  was 
to  blame  for  haying  failed  her;  that  he  ought  to 
have  welcomed  her  suggestion  of  their  going  away 
together. 

She  read  this  thought  all  too  clearly.  She  real- 
ized that  her  power  over  him  was  gone  and  could 
never  be  recovered.  Something  had  happened  to 
him  that  night  while  they  had  been  talking  together. 
It  was  as  if  a  spell  had  been  broken,  though  how  or 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       287 

when  it  had  been  broken  she  had  no  idea.  But  with 
that  realization,  a  feeling  of  impotence  came  to  her, 
an  unendurable  feeling  that  she  could  not  endure. 
Power  she  must  have,  and  if  she  could  no  longer 
exercise  it  in  the  old  way  she  would  find  a  new  mode 
of  expression  in  her  dealings  with  him.  She  would 
give,  would  make  him  a  magnificent  present  of 
his  desire;  and  in  giving  recover,  not  his 
worship  —  that  had  been  transferred  to  another 
ideal  —  but  at  least  his  admiration  for  her  clever- 
ness and  something,  perhaps,  of  his  fond  gratitude. 
But,  with  that  determination,  her  instant  apprecia- 
tion of  the  part  she  was  called  upon  to  play  changed 
her  resentment  to  sympathy.  She  was  suddenly 
sorry  for  his  distress.  Had  she  not  deserted  him 
when  he  had  pleaded  with  her;  been  ready  to  con- 
demn him  to  a  greater  misery  when  it  was  in  her 
power  to  bring  him  what  he  would  regard  as  supreme 
happiness?  She  saw  her  life  influenced  by  a  new 
and  as  it  seemed  then,  an  exquisitely  beautiful 
motive,  the  motive  of  self-renunciation. 

"  I  can  tell  you  why,"  she  said.  "  Because  you 
think  that  I  could  never  bear  to  see  you  in  love  with 
another  woman.  Well,  it's  true,  or  it  was  true;  but 
no  other  woman  will  ever  love  you  as  much  as  I 
have,  Stephen, —  even  if  I  have  been  selfish  in  my 
love."  She  looked  straight  into  his  eyes,  watching 
him  anxiously  as  she  continued.  "  And  Stephen,  I 
never  loved  you  so  much  as  when  you  pleaded  with 
me  the  night  I  ran  away.  That  laugh  of  mine  that 
hurt  you  so  much  ought  to  have  told  you  how  I  loved 
you.  Can't  you  see,  now,  that  it  was  a  sign  of  my 
despair?  I  couldn't  keep  you  off.  That  laugh  was 
my  last  effort  to  defend  myself.  If  you'd  said  one 
more  word,  I  should  have  given  in.  I  was  at  the 
end  of  my  resources.     I  should  have  given  up  Chris- 


288        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

topher  and  gone  home  with  you.  And  I  don't  know, 
now,  whether  it  was  a  relief  or  a  bitter  disappoint- 
ment to  me  when  you  ran  away."  She  paused,  but 
still  he  did  not  understand. 

"  It's  true,  Stephen,"  she  said.  "  Can't  you  re- 
alize, now,  that  when  a  woman  laughs  like  that,  it  is 
because  she  is  torn  in  two?  " 

And  then  the  sight  of  the  dawning  realization  in 
his  eyes  nearly  changed  her  purpose.  Was  she  to 
have  no  part  in  his  happiness,  even  though  she  won 
it  for  him  by  an  act  of  self-renunciation? 

11  Oh!  you  begin  to  see  new  prospects,  do  you?  " 
she  asked  mockingly.  "  But  you  might  at  least 
thank  me  for  opening  your  blind  eyes." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  think  it's  possible  she 
really  does  care  after  all?  "  he  asked. 

Cecilia  laughed.  His  obsession  was  too  manifest. 
Yet  while  it  provoked  her,  it  stiffened  her  in  her  de- 
termination. She  was  aware  of  him  as  of  an  un- 
responsive audience.  Only  one  item  in  her  whole 
repertoire  could  quicken  him,  now,  and  she  meant  to 
produce  it.  After  that,  she  must  resign  herself  to 
the  inevitable.  In  future  she  would  be  just  his 
mother;  a  useful,  elderly  relation  who  was  expected 
to  be  sympathetic  and  kind  on  all  occasions.  No 
doubt,  he  would  still  be  polite  to  her. 

14  Do  I  think  it's  possible?  "  she  said  with  a  half- 
supercilious  aloofness,  her  habit  impelling  her  to  play 
with  him  and  keep  him  in  suspense  for  still  a  few 
more  moments.  You  have  told  me  so  little  about 
your  meeting,"  she  continued.  u  How  did  she  look 
at  you?  Was  she  smiling,  when  she  laughed  at 
you?" 

Stephen  shook  his  head  emphatically.  "  She 
looked  hard  and  cruel,"  he  said. 

Cecilia  lifted  her  chin  with  a  little  movement  of 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       289 

contempt.  "  What  fools  men  are,  when  they're  in 
love,"  she  commented. 

"  Mother !  you  don't  really  believe.  .  .  ."  he  be- 
gan eagerly,  but  she  impatiently  waved  her  hands  at 
him,  for  silence. 

"  Believe  ?     No.    I'm  sure,"  she  said.     "  Haven't 

I  been  through  it  all,  myself?  Can't  you  see  that 
you're  a  temptation  to  her,  boy?  She  wants  you 
desperately,  but  she's  a  trained  and  experienced 
modern  young  woman,  and  she  has  a  very  clear  idea 
of  the  value  of  money  and  position  and  of  all  that 
she  would  lose  by  marrying  you.  Love  in  a  cottage 
is  very  pretty  and  romantic,  but  love  in  a  semi- 
detached villa,  you  know,  Stephen,  is  not  an  attract- 
ive ideal.  And  I  don't  suppose  for  one  minute  that 
old  Dr.  Weatherley  will  help  you.  He's  just  the 
kind  of  a  man  to  make  an  endless  fuss.  He's  just 
as  much  a  schoolmaster  as  ever  he  was,  and  he'll 
treat  you  as  if  you  were  a  very  naughty  boy  and  try 
to  expell  you. 

"  So  you  see,"  she  went  on  in  a  more  gentle  voice, 

II  that  Margaret  had  a  very  good  excuse  for  wanting 
to  —  choke  you  off,  Stephen.  I've  no  doubt  that 
after  you  left  her  this  afternoon,  she  told  herself 
seriously  that  it  wouldn't  do.  And,  by  the  way,  do 
you  realize  that  she  probably  absented  herself  from 
the  matinee  to-day,  on  purpose  to  see  you?  And 
very  likely  her  reaction  took  the  form  of  promising 
to  go  out  to  supper  with  a  really  eligible  young  man. 
Did  he  look  eligible?  Yes?  It  was  probably  Lord 
Merton.  He  proposes  to  her  regularly  once  a 
week.  Well,  picture  her  feelings,  my  dear  little  boy, 
when  she  came  out  of  the  theater,  full  of  the  best 
intentions  to  marry  suitably,  and  saw  her  temptation 
waiting  for  her.  Of  course  she  hated  herself,  and 
hated  you  for  having  made  her  love  you.     What 


29o       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

she  would  have  liked  to  do,  at  that  minute,  would 
have  been  to  shriek  and  push  you  under  the  wheels 
of  a  motor  bus.  She  wanted  to  get  rid  of  you,  at 
any  price.  And  I've  no  doubt  that  as  soon  as  you 
had  run  away,  she  refused  to  go  out  with  young  Lord 
Merton,  and  went  home  and  cried." 

"  Oh !  mother,"  sighed  Stephen  ecstatically.  She 
had  made  it  all  look  so  reasonable  and  probable  that 
the  memory  of  Margaret's  laugh  was  becoming  a 
beautiful  and  thrilling  thing. 

11  But  what  ought  I  to  do?  M  he  asked. 

Cecilia  smiled  rather  sardonically.  u  I'm  the 
complete  instructress,  aren't  I,  Stephen?"  she  re- 
plied. "  You  didn't  realize  how  useful  I  might  be 
in  advising  you  how  to  make  love.  Do  ?  Why  be- 
siege her,  of  course.  Take  it  for  granted  that  you 
and  she  are  romantically  pledged  to  each  other. 
Keep  that  stop  out  all  the  time  and  never  mind  how 
often  you  repeat  the  motif.  Make  her  run  away 
with  you.  Though  Heaven  knows  what  you'll  do 
afterwards,  what  will  Mr.  Dickinson  say?  " 

11  Oh !  that'll  be  all  right,"  Stephen  said  impatient- 
ly. He  was  full  of  courage  and  determination,  now. 
If  he  could  but  have  spoken  to  Margaret  at  that 
moment,  he  would,  indeed,  have  "  besieged "  her 
with  confidence. 

u  Will  it?  Oh!  very  well.  I  don't  suppose  I 
can  expect  you  to  be  sensible  about  that,"  Cecilia 
replied.  Her  voice  had  suddenly  fallen  to  a  note  of 
weariness  and  distaste.  She  looked  as  if  she  had 
passed  in  a  moment  from  the  publicity  of  the  stage 
to  the  solitude  of  her  own  thoughts. 

"  I  think  you  must  go  now,  Stephen,"  she  said. 
"  It's  nearly  two  o'clock,  and  I  feel  fagged  out." 

Stephen  looked   disappointed.     He  would   have 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       291 

liked  to  stay  a  little  longer,  gleaning  new  and  more 
glorious  encouragement  from  her. 

She  saw  the  longing  in  his  face  and  anticipated  his 
request.  "  You'd  better  go,"  she  said.  "  If  you 
stay  another  minute,  I  shall  probably  spoil  every- 
thing I've  said  to  you,  out  of  sheer  ennui.  I  simply 
can't  bear  another  word  about  your  infatuation,  to- 
night;' 

He  realized  the  finality  of  her  threat,  and  his 
conscience  reproached  him,  for  his  selfishness. 
"Yes,  you're  tired  out,"  he  said;  "I'll  go.  And 
mother,  I  am  most  tremendously  grateful  to  you. 
You  know  that,  don't  you?  " 

"  Oh!  yes,"  she  agreed  wearily.  "  Don't  try  to 
make  amends  by  thanking  me." 

He  hesitated  a  moment  over  the  word  "  amends," 
but  decided  to  let  it  pass.  "  I  shall  see  you  to-mor- 
row, sha'n't  I?"  he  asked,  and  then  embraced  her 
with  something  more  than  his  usual  warmth.  "  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  do  without  you,"  he  mur- 
mured fondly. 

She  took  his  kiss  placidly.  "  You  must  tell  me 
how  your  affair  goes,"  she  said. 

But  when  he  had  gone,  she  sat  quite  still  in  her 
chair,  staring  out  in  front  of  her  as  if  she  sought  to 
find  some  least  hope  that  would  make  her  future  life 
endurable.  And  once,  long  after  he  had  left  the 
house,  she  got  up  and  made  a  quick  movement  to- 
wards the  door  as  if,  after  all,  she  had  changed  her 
mind  and  would  call  him  back  to  her. 


Stephen  awoke  the  next  morning  in  his  Blooms- 
bury  Street  lodgings,  with  a  sense  of  new  beginnings. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  from  to-day  his  whole  life 


292        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

would  start  afresh.  Something  had  happened  to 
him,  some  dark  place  in  his  mind  had  been  opened 
and  cleared  up,  and  he  felt  himself  invigorated  and 
renewed.  He  attributed  the  change  solely  to  the 
fact  that  his  mother  had  given  him  hope  of  winning 
Margaret.  Cecilia's  analysis  appeared  no  less  true 
to  him,  this  morning,  than  it  had  when  it  had  come 
to  him  as  a  revelation  the  night  before.  And  he 
found  no  special  significance  in  the  fact  that  his 
thought  had  a  tendency  to  revert  with  a  strange  sense 
of  pleasure,  to  that  other  explanation  of  hers  con- 
cerning the  origin  of  his  peculiar  horror  at  the  sound 
of  hysterical  laughter.  The  thought  of  that,  now, 
was  like  ease  after  pain.  He  could  reflect  upon  it 
and  smile  at  his  old  weakness  in  the  enjoyment  of  his 
present  strength. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  had  breakfast  that  he  began 
to  apprehend  the  possibility  that  he  had,  also,  lost 
something.  He  found  himself  wanting  to  ask  his 
mother  for  further  advice,  and  realizing  that  it  would 
be  impossible  for  him  to  go  to  her.  He  was  aware, 
he  knew  not  how  or  why,  that  the  liaison  of  sympa- 
thy between  them  was  definitely  broken.  He  had 
accused  her  of  not  understanding,  and  she  had  re- 
plied by  proving  to  him  how  truly  and  comprehen- 
sively she  understood  all  about  him.  But  in  do- 
ing it  she  had,  he  thought,  too  fully  revealed  her- 
self. He  saw,  now,  that  she  must  have  deliberately 
hidden  her  knowledge  in  the  first  instance.  She  must 
have  known  when  he  told  her  of  the  scene  outside  the 
theater  that  the  true  interpretation  of  it  could  only 
be  read  as  an  encouragement  to  hope.  Yet  she  had 
concealed  that  vitally  important  knowledge  from 
him,  then,  and  had  even,  with  what  seemed  to  be  un- 
forgivable chicane,  disguised  the  true  cause  of  her 
own  laughter,  seven  years  earlier. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       293 

The  purpose  of  her  deceit  was  quite  evident.  She 
had  wanted  to  keep  him  to  herself,  to  separate  him 
from  Margaret.  It  was  not  until  she  had  seen  how 
hopeless  her  purpose  was,  that  she  had  thrown  up 
her  hand  and  told  him  the  truth.  And  in  doing  that 
she  had,  he  knew,  relinquished  her  claim  upon  him. 
He  had  the  same  feelings  of  loss  and  relief  that  he 
had  had  when  they  quarreled  at  Medboro'.  But 
this  time,  it  was  final.  Her  last  words  to  him  had 
been  to  the  effect  that  he  must  tell  her  how  his  "  af- 
fair "  went;  the  conventional  request  of  a  faintly  in- 
terested spectator.  That  speech,  alone,  was  enough 
to  warn  him  that  he  must  take  her  no  more  confi- 
dences. But  had  he  not  always  known  that  he  would 
never  be  able  to  confide  to  her  his  love  for  another 
woman?  That  was  her  limitation,  and  this  morning 
it  seemed  to  him  a  very  drastic  one.  .   .   . 

He  was  surprised  when,  at  one  o'clock,  the  ad- 
mirable Butler  brought  over  a  letter  from  Cecilia. 
At  first  he  thought  that  contrary  to  all  precedent  she 
had  put  her  grievance  against  him  in  writing.  But 
the  note  was  very  brief : — 

"  Dear  Stephen : 

"  I  got  her  on  the  telephone  this  morning,  and 
she's  coming  here  this  afternoon.  Don't  turn  up  be- 
fore six  and  then  come  straight  up  to  my  room.  If 
you  don't  obey  these  necessary  instructions  I  wash 
my  hands  of  you. 

11  Your  patient  Mother." 

When  he  read  that  note  and  for  some  consider- 
able time  after,  Stephen  had  no  thought  to  spare  for 
the  writer  of  it.  He  had  spent  the  better  part  of 
the  morning  pretending  to  read,  and  wondering 
whether  when  he  went   to   Bryanston   Square,   he 


294       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

would  find  an  opportunity  to  speak  to  Margaret, 
alone.  He  had  meant  to  go,  although  he  could  think 
of  no  excuse  to  offer  for  calling  there  again  so  soon. 
There  was,  indeed,  nothing  else  to  be  done.  He  had 
for  a  few  reactionary  moments  considered  the  idea 
of  writing  to  Margaret,  and  then  had  dismissed  that 
absurd  notion  with  contempt.  He  had  no  more 
ability  to  write,  now,  than  when  he  had  attended  old 
Sercombe's  literature  class.  Perhaps,  rather  less. 
It  had  been  an  obvious  deduction  therefore,  that  he 
must  snap  his  fingers  at  convention  and  go  to  Bryans- 
ton  Square.  He  had  meant  to  go  early,  say  at  three 
o'clock,  and  ask  for  Margaret  at  the  door. 

And,  now,  everything  was  to  be  made  easy  for 
him;  and  he  could  meet  Margaret  with  the  certain 
assurance  that  she  would,  at  least,  listen  to  him.  If 
she  had  wanted  to  avoid  him,  she  would  not  have 
accepted  an  invitation  to  his  mother's  house. 

Nevertheless,  although  Stephen's  mind  during  the 
next  five  impatient  hours  continued  to  be  occupied 
unprogressively  with  a  hundred  different  versions  of 
his  coming  conversation  with  Margaret,  he  found 
time  for  an  occasional  thought  of  Cecilia.  She  was 
going  to  be  sensible,  was  his  summary  of  that  aspect 
of  the  future.  She  was  going  to  be  a  reasonable 
mother  and  help  him  as  any  reasonable  mother 
should.  Already  the  new  life  that  he  had  begun  so 
hopefully  that  morning  was  beginning  to  absorb  him, 
and  only  quite  distantly  was  he  aware  of  some  vague 
tragedy  that  had  threatened  her.  Probably  all  her 
talk  of  the  night  before  had  been  exaggerated.  She 
worked  herself  up  into  such  states  of  emotion.  No 
doubt,  she  and  Threlfall  would  settle  down  quite 
comfortably  in  time.  And  she  had  her  play  —  and 
little  Chris. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       295 


But  if  some  vital  quality  in  their  relations  was 
spent,  he  had  lost  none  of  his  admiration  for  her 
powers  of  finesse.  He  had  no  idea  what  her  plan 
might  be  for  that  afternoon,  but  he  had  no  doubt 
that  it  was  most  admirably  adapted  to  the  needs  of 
the  situation.  Once  she  had,  as  he  now  presumed  to 
be  the  case,  conquered  her  ridiculous  jealousy,  she 
would  prove  an  invaluable  ally.  It  might  be  that  if 
all  went  well,  she  could  be  coaxed  into  using  her  won- 
derful powers  for  the  conciliation  and  persuasion  of 
Margaret's  father. 

He  heard  no  sound  of  conversation  as  he  passed 
the  drawing-room  door,  and  inferred  that  the  usual 
crowd  of  Sunday  visitors  had  already  departed.  De- 
spite his  confidence  in  Cecilia's  inspired  diplomacy, 
he  was  immensely  alert  and  rather  anxious.  He  had 
a  queer  dread  of  finding  Margaret  alone  in  his 
mother's  room.  He  felt  that  he  wanted  time  for 
preparation,  a  breathing  space  in  which  to  watch  her, 
and  listen  to  her  voice,  and  excite  himself  to  what 
would  be,  he  knew,  the  incalculably  difficult  task  of 
saying  what  he  had  to  say. 

He  was  greatly  relieved  to  hear  Cecilia's  voice 
speaking,  as  he  paused  outside  the  door ;  but  the  con- 
fidence that  filled  him  as  he  entered  the  room  was 
instantly  withdrawn  again. 

His  mother  and  Margaret,  who  had  taken  off  her 
hat  and  looked  very  much  at  home,  were  sitting  side 
by  side  with  an  effect  of  exchanging  confidences,  on 
the  little  Chesterfield  between  the  windows.  Cecilia 
raised  her  eyebrows  as  he  came  in  with  an  expression 
of  surprise. 

"  You?  "  she  said.  "  I'd  quite  given  you  up  for 
to-day." 


296       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

Stephen's  heart  fell.  He  had  hoped  that  the 
great  difficulty  had  been  smoothed  away  from  him  by 
his  mother's  offices,  that  she  had  perhaps  told  Mar- 
garet his  story.  And,  now,  not  only  was  all  his  task 
still  before  him  but  also  he  was  taxed  with  the  dis- 
tasteful necessity  of  playing  up  to  Cecilia's  dis- 
honesties. He  did  not  even  see  the  quick  look  of 
inquiry  that  Margaret  gave  him,  as  muttering  some- 
thing that  he  intended  to  be  inaudible,  he  crossed  the 
room  to  greet  her. 

"  Hardly  any  one  came  to-day,"  Cecilia  explained 
in  a  bright,  clear  voice.  "  It  happens  like  that  some- 
times, so  Margaret  and  I  escaped  up  here  to  talk 
about  the  theater.  We  are  quite  agreed  that  it's 
a  perfectly  hateful  profession." 

"  And  I'm  giving  it  up,  if  I  can  ever  be  said  to 
have  belonged  to  it,'  Margaret  added,  with  a  slightly 
conciliatory  air  of  having  deferred  to  some  wish  of 
Stephen's.  "  But  I  practically  told  you  that  yester- 
day, didn't  I?  "  she  concluded. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  are  leaving  the  Audi- 
torium? "  he  asked  as  he  drew  up  a  chair  towards 
his  mother's  end  of  the  Chesterfield  and  sat  down. 

"  At  the  end  of  this  week,"  Margaret  said.  "  I 
don't  know  why  I  ever  started  it." 

11  The  craving  for  excitement,"  Cecilia  suggested. 

Margaret  acknowledged  the  possibility  as  if  she 
made  confession  for  the  vanities  of  youth.  "  One 
does,  rather  run  about  after  excitements,"  she  ad- 
mitted, and  added  with  a  whimsical  glance  at  Ste- 
phen, "  Even  such  things  as  going  up  to  the  top  of  a 
crane.     Did  he  tell  you  that  it  nearly  made  me  ill?  " 

11  He  told  me  nothing  whatever  about  it,"  Cecilia 
replied.  "  If  I  hadn't  had  the  news  from  you,  he 
would  have  kept  the  whole  adventure  a  profound 
secret." 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       297 

Stephen  understood  that  his  mother  was  loyally 
playing  his  game  for  him,  but  he  did  not  want  it  to 
be  played  in  this  way.  He  was  still  uncomfortably 
aware  of  being  there  under  false  pretenses.  Cecilia, 
perhaps  doubting  his  ability,  had  not  forced  him  to 
invent  an  excuse  for  coming  at  six  o'clock.  Her 
trick  was  probably  safe  enough.  But  he  disliked 
the  idea  of  playing  any  kind  of  trick  on  Margaret.. 
And  this  innuendo  concerning  his  reasons  for  saying 
nothing  of  the  crane  incident  was  almost  equally 
"  tricky."  It  all  so  very  manifestly  struck  a  false 
note. 

He  frowned,  and  looked  at  Margaret  with  an 
expression  that  begged  her  not  to  take  him  at  any 
value  other  than  his  own. 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  began,  but  Cecilia  in- 
terrupted him. 

11  I  must  just  go  to  Chris  for  a  few  minutes,  dear," 
she  said  to  Margaret.  "  He  and  I  had  a  slight  mis- 
understanding this  afternoon,  and  I  promised  to  go 
to  him  as  soon  as  the  people  had  gone.  And  when 
we've  made  it  up,  will  you  come  and  help  me  put  him 
to  bed?" 

The  two  women  looked  at  one  another  with  a 
perfectly  clear  understanding  of  this  further  piece  of 
chicane,  and  there  was  something  in  Margaret's  eyes 
and  voice  that  as  it  were  reluctantly  submitted  to  it, 
when  she  replied. 

11  If  you're  not  too  long,"  she  said. 

"  Ten  minutes  at  the  outside,"  Cecilia  returned 
gayly. 

Stephen  jumped  up  to  open  the  door  for  her.  She 
did  not  look  at  him  as  she  went  out. 

He  closed  the  door  behind  her  with  an  exaggerated 
carefulness.  He  was  so  intent,  now,  upon  what  he 
had  to  say  that  Margaret's  presence  in  the  room  with 


298        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

him  appeared  to  be  little  more  than  a  necessary  inci- 
dent of  the  setting.  He  dared  neither  look  at  her 
nor  think  of  her,  and  he  began  to  speak  with  the 
whole  width  of  the  room  between  them,  finding  sup- 
port in  leaning  his  back  against  the  door  as  if  barring 
any  possible  invasion, —  though  the  truth  is  that  he 
was  entirely  unconscious  of  his  own  attitude. 

"  I  want  to  explain,"  he  said.  "  My  mother  sent 
me  a  note  this  morning  telling  me  not  to  come  till 
six.  I  thought  she'd  probably  tell  you.  I  don't 
want  you  to  think  I  arranged  this.  I  meant  to  come 
and  see  you  in  Bryanston  Square,  this  afternoon.  I 
had  to  see  you  somehow  after  last  night.  I  told  my 
mother  about  it.  I  couldn't  help  it.  I'd  been  think- 
ing all  kinds  of  things;  after  I'd  seen  you  outside  the 
theater.  I  thought  you  had  —  had  done  with  me 
—  didn't  want  to  be  bothered  with  me  any  more. 
And  I  meant  to  have  an  accident  at  the  works.  I 
didn't  tell  my  mother  that,  but  I  knew  that  that  was 
what  it  must  come  to,  and  I  suppose  I  wanted  to  put 
everything  straight  with  her  first.  I'm  not  sure.  I 
was  a  little  off  my  head.  I  can't  tell  you  really  why 
I  came  here  after  I  saw  you.  But  anyway  I  did, 
and  my  mother  gave  me  a  sort  of  hope  that  per- 
haps I  was  wrong  about  your  not  wanting  to  see 
me  again.  She  was  tremendously  kind  to  me,  and 
encouraged  me  no  end.  .  .  ."  He  made  his  first 
pause  before  he  added  by  way  of  rounding  up  his 
speech  and  making  his  intention  quite  plain.  "  And 
then  your  coming  here  to-day." 

He  had  not  once  shifted  his  gaze  from  a  particular 
spot  on  the  carpet  about  half  way  between  him  and 
Margaret,  while  he  made  this  explanation,  and  that 
spot  still  held  his  attention  while  he  waited  for  her 
reply. 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       299 

Margaret,  although  she  had  sat  quite  still  and 
made  no  effort  to  interrupt  his  explanation,  had  per- 
mitted herself  to  look  at  him.  One  side  of  her  mind 
listened  to  and  clearly  understood  every  word  he  was 
saying,  another  side  was  offering  her  the  strangest 
contrasts.  She  remembered  the  many  other  pro- 
posals she  had  received,  all  so  similar  in  kind. 
Nearly  all  of  them,  so  it  seemed  to  her,  had  been 
accompanied  by  a  surreptitious  snatching  for  her 
hand,  or  by  attempts  to  embrace  or  kiss  her.  Indeed 
the  one  exception  she  could  recall  was  the  instance  of 
Graham  Coulter,  the  author,  who  had  lounged  in  the 
corner  of  a  settee  and  regretfully  admitted  that  he 
saw  no  alternative  but  to  marry  her,  although  it 
would  probably  ruin  his  work  to  do  so. 

When  she  spoke  she  was  still  awaiting  the  verdict 
of  her  own  suspended  judgment.  She  had  had  a 
strong  reaction  after  he  had  left  her  the  previous 
afternoon.  She  had  been  scared  at  her  own  liking 
for  him,  and  had  determined, —  finally,  as  she  sup- 
posed,—  that  "  it  would  never  do."  Then  the  scene 
outside  the  theatre  had  upset  her  again.  Cecilia's 
guess  had  not  been  quite  a  correct  one.  Margaret 
had  gone  out  to  supper  with  young  Lord  Merton, 
and  had  been  haunted  all  through  that  entertainment 
by  the  memory  of  the  horror  in  Stephen's  eyes.  She 
had  felt  ever  since  that  she  must  make  some  explana- 
tion to  him,  and  had  welcomed  the  chance  of  meeting 
him  that  afternoon  in  Bedford  Square. 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  why  you  ran  away  so 
quickly  last  night,"  she  said.  "  I  had  been  laughing 
a  good  deal  all  the  evening,  and  you  know  how,  when 
one  gets  in  that  mood,  the  least  thing  sets  you  off 
again.  It  wasn't  a  bit  that  I  didn't  want  to  see  you 
any  more." 


3oo       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

Stephen  looked  up  doubtfully.  This  explanation 
did  not  run  with  his  desire  nearly  so  well  as  his 
mother's  had  done. 

"  But  what  did  you  mean  by  asking  me  to  read 
that  story?  "  he  asked. 

Margaret  blushed.  The  direct  question  rather 
flustered  her.  And  he  looked  so  big  and  solemn  and 
ominous  standing  there  with  his  back  to  the  door. 

"  What  you  said  made  me  think  of  that  story,"  she 
said,  trying  very  hard  to  persuade  herself  that  her 
reference  to  "  The  Brushwood  Boy  "  was  just  a  com- 
monplace remark  without  any  compromising  signifi- 
cance. "  I  didn't  know  that  you  would  take  it  so 
seriously,"  she  added. 

"Was  that  all?"  Stephen  asked,  and  she  could 
not  fail  to  realize  that  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
she  was  in  the  presence  of  tragedy. 

There  could  be  no  mistaking  him.  He  was  too 
utterly  sincere.  He  would  neither  threaten  nor  be- 
seech her;  he  would  not  even  press  her  for  a  more 
explicit  statement.  He  would  just  go  away  and  the 
next  morning  there  would  be  an  accident  at  the 
works.  And  however  doubtful  she  might  still  be  of 
her  ultimate  intention,  she  knew  quite  certainly  that 
she  could  not  bear  him  to  be  killed  —  not  only  be- 
cause the  responsibility  would  be  hers,  but  also  be- 
cause she  definitely  wanted  him.  The  thought  of 
marrying  him  opened  up  a  prospect  of  endless  incon- 
veniences and  difficulties,  but  she  preferred  even  that 
alternative  to  the  thought  of  the  threatened  "  acci- 
dent." 

"  No,  it  wasn't  all,"  she  said. 

He  did  not  look  up.  "  What  else  did  you 
mean?  "  he  asked. 

She  threw  back  her  head  as  if  she  wanted  more 
air.     "  Would  you  mind  very  much,  coming  over 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       301 

here  and  sitting  down?  "  she  said.  "  It  tires  me  to 
talk  right  across  the  room  like  this." 

She  made  a  place  for  him  on  the  Chesterfield,  and 
he  went  and  sat  by  her,  but  he  still  made  no  attempt 
to  touch  her. 

"  What  else  did  you  mean?  "  he  repeated. 

u  Well,  it  was  true,  in  a  way,"  she  said  with  a 
slight  touch  of  fretfulness  in  her  voice.  "  I  did 
always  rather  like  you.  At  the  King's  School,  you 
know,  I  —  I  picked  you  out,  in  a  way.  And  when 
I  saw  you  again,  that  night  outside  the  theater  about 
a  fortnight  ago,  when  we  didn't  speak,  you  remem- 
ber, I  had  a  —  a  sort  of  feeling  that  you'd  come 
back." 

"And,  now?"  he  persisted  relentlessly. 

"  You're  so  dreadfully  serious  about  it,  you 
frighten  me,"  she  said. 

"Oh!  yes,  I'm  very  serious  about  it,"  he  said. 
"  I  don't  think  it  would  be  possible  for  any  one  to 
be  more  serious  about  anything." 

"  You  mean  that  you  want  to  —  to  .  .  ."  she  sug- 
gested. 

"  To  marry  you." 

He  said  it  quite  firmly,  as  if  he  reminded  her  that 
he  had  made  his  intentions  quite  clear  on  that  point  a 
few  minutes  earlier.  Nevertheless,  he  used  the 
word  "  marry "  with  a  kind  of  gentleness  as  he 
uttered  it;  dwelling  upon  it  slightly  as  upon  a  word 
of  extraordinary  sacredness  and  beauty. 

She  made  a  little  leap  to  get  beyond  the  danger 
point  as  quickly  as  possible.  "  But  you  don't  seem 
to  realize  all  the  difficulties,"  she  said  with  a  defen- 
sive feverishness,  and  rather  as  though  they  had  been 
engaged  for  years.  "  Your  position,  I  mean,  for 
one  thing.  My  father,  for  instance,  wouldn't  hear 
of  it,  I  know.     And  then  what  could  we  live  on? 


302       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

I've  been  so  dreadfully  spoilt,  I  should  hate  to  have 
to  live  on  about  seven  or  eight  hundred  a  year  now. 
It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  threaten  me  with  dread- 
ful things  like  that  accident  you  talked  about;  but 
supposing  I  did  agree,  what  could  we  possibly  do?  " 

He  did  not  answer  immediately  and  then  he  said 
steadily,  "  Yes,  I  know,  but  what  I  want  to  be  sure 
about  first  of  all  is  whether  you  could  ever  care  .  .  . 
enough  to  marry  me." 

Margaret  had,  she  believed,  been  playing  her  part 
in  the  conduct  of  this  unique  affair  with  the  greatest 
coolness  and  dexterity;  and  she  was  amazed  and  hor- 
rified with  herself  when  she  discovered  that  she  was, 
suddenly  and  disgracefully,  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

11  It  isn't  ...  I  don't  .  .  ."  she  began  and  felt 
for  her  pocket  handkerchief.  "  You  —  you  do  bully 
me  so,"  she  protested  passionately  and  then  her  tears 
came  in  a  quite  astonishing  gush.  She  had  always 
wept  with  this  quiet  violence.  As  a  little  girl,  her 
sister  Grace  used  to  implore  her  not  to  cry.  "  Oh, 
Marge,  don't!  you'll  make  yourself  so  wet*'  was 
Grace's  invariable  form  of  remonstrance. 

The  sight  of  the  impetuous  stream  of  tears  that 
began  to  trickle  down  her  face,  even  before  she 
could  use  her  ridiculously  inadequate  speck  of  a 
handkerchief,  had  an  almost  miraculous  effect  upon 
Stephen.  He  entirely  forgot  himself.  He  could 
not  bear  to  see  her  crying  like  a  little  girl  of  twelve. 
He  was  willing  to  do  anything  she  could  ask  him  to 
stop  that  astonishing  fount  of  tears.  But  she  was 
obviously  incapable  of  speech,  and  it  was  an  immense 
protective  influence  rather  than  any  demonstration 
of  passion  that  made  him  put  his  arms  round  her  and 
beg  her  not  to  cry  any  more. 

But  having  then  impulsively  and  dispassionately 
achieved  the  embrace,  he  found  that  he  could  not  re- 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       303 

lease  her.  His  arms  tightened  about  her,  he  drew 
her  still  more  closely  to  him,  he  bent  his  cheek  down 
and  pressed  it  violently  against  her  hair.  He  knew 
that  he  was  taking  an  unfair  advantage  of  her,  but 
he  did  not  care.  He  felt  that  he  must  go  on  holding 
her,  even  against  her  will.  This  was  the  supreme, 
ecstatic  moment  of  his  life,  and  he  meant  to  pro- 
long it  to  its  utmost  limit.  He  had  no  thought  for 
the  future,  nor  at  the  moment  for  Margaret's  own 
desire,  he  was  conscious  only  of  the  perfect  enjoy- 
ment of  holding  her  close  to  him,  and  he  was  ready  to 
resist,  brutally  if  need  be,  any  attempt  to  deprive 
him  of  his  ecstasy. 

Margaret,  however,  made  no  resistance,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  ages  of  exquisite  bliss  had  passed 
before  he  heard  her  voice,  little  and  smothered,  cry- 
ing out  to  him. 

He  shuddered  with  apprehension.  "  I  couldn't 
hear,"  he  whispered,  prepared  still  to  disobey  her 
if  she  commanded  him  to  let  her  go. 

M  Oh !  have  you  a  handkerchief?  was  Margaret's 
slightly  petulant  response. 

The  needs  of  convention  undid  him  where  force 
or  protestation  would  have  failed;  and  as  he  found 
the  handkerchief  for  her,  she  pulled  herself  away 
from  him. 

"  You  admit  that  you  do  bully  me,"  she  said  in 
a  calm  voice. 

14  I  couldn't  help  it,"  he  said.  His  eyes  had  found 
their  pleasure  at  last.  He  was  no  longer  afraid  to 
look  at  her;  and  his  glance  still  held  and  caressed 
her,  while  his  heart  beat  furiously  at  the  realization 
that  she  was  not,  after  all,  angry  with  him. 

"  Don't,"  Margaret  said,  blushing. 

"  I  must,"  he  said. 

"  Not  like  that,"  she  pleaded. 


304       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  he  said. 

"  But  I  must  look  such  an  awful  sight,"  she  remon- 
strated. "  With  my  eyes  and  nose  all  red.  I  know 
what  I  always  look  like  after  I've  been  crying." 

He  drew  a  long  sigh  of  rapture.  You  look 
.  .  ."  he  tried,  and  failed  completely  to  find  any 
comparison  that  was  not  hopelessly  banal.  But  his 
eyes  spoke  for  him. 

She  took  the  more  obvious  means  of  escape  by 
hiding  her  face  in  her  hands  and  his  handkerchief. 

11 1  haven't  even  said  that  I  don't  hate  you,"  she 
murmured  from  behind  her  ambush.  "  I'm  sure 
I've  got  reason  enough." 

11  Do  you?"  he  asked  with  a  touch  of  anxiety. 
He  knew  that  a  further  resort  to  physical  force  was 
no  longer  possible,  and  already  he  was  aching  with 
the  need  for  the  further  delight  of  her. 

She  dropped  her  hands.  "  We  must  be  sensi- 
ble," she  said. 

What  do  you  propose  to  do?     To  marry ^ne  on 
how  much  a  year?  " 

"  If  you  care  for  me,  it  doesn't  matter  how  much 
money  we  have,"  he  said  with  calm  conviction. 

"  But  it  does,"  she  retorted  with  a  feebleness  that 
was  almost  ludicrous  by  comparison  with  his  as- 
surance. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Oh!  Stephen!  "  she  protested,  but  he  knew  that 
the  protest  was  not  against  his  contradiction,  but 
against  the  intense  avowal  of  love  that  still  showed 
in  his  eyes.  He  was,  however,  encouraged  by  her 
use  of  his  Christian  name. 

11  You  do  care,"  he  said.  "  I  know  you  do.  You 
have  always;  although  you  may  not  have  known  it 
yourself.  Haven't  you?  Don't  you  know  it, 
now?" 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       305 

He  was  rapt  and  lost  in  love,  divinely  without  self- 
consciousness;  and  the  movement  with  which  he 
slipped  on  to  his  knees  before  her  and  took  her 
hands  in  his,  had  all  the  grace  of  the  natural  animal. 

"Oh!  Perhaps.  I  don't  know.  Yes.  Yes,  I 
do.  I  always  have."  She  surrendered  finally  with- 
out reserve.  She  felt  the  power  of  his  longing  draw- 
ing her  like  a  physical  force.  She  bent  her  head  and 
kissed  him  on  the  lips,  with  a  long,  passionate  kiss 
that  made  renunciation  of  all  her  other  ambitions. 

"  And  you  care  enough  to  live  in  a  pokey  little 
house,  anywhere,  Medboro'  for  instance?  "  he  asked 
after  a  long  interval. 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  in  an  expression  of  whim- 
sical surprise.  "  Does  it  matter  at  all  what  Vm 
prepared  to  do?"  she  asked.  "I've  given  in.  I 
haven't  any  will  of  my  own  left.  You'll  make  me 
do  whatever  you  want." 

"  It  won't  be  such  a  very  pokey  house,"  he  assured 
her,  by  way  of  apology  for  getting  his  own  way. 

"  Afrd  what  about  my  father?  "  she  continued. 

"  I'll  never  be  able  to  persuade  him,"  he  admitted. 
"  I'll  try,  of  course,  but  he  won't  listen.  We'll  have 
to  be  married  without  his  consent." 

"  I  suppose  you'd  break  into  the  house  and  take 
me  away  by  force?  "  she  suggested. 

"  If  necessary,"  he  agreed  quietly.  He  knew  that 
nothing  could  stop  him,  now  that  she  had  admitted 
her  love  for  him. 

Indeed  so  superb  was  his  confidence,  that  in  a  sud- 
den panic  lest  he  might  suggest  carrying  her  off  then 
and  there  in  order  to  anticipate  all  future  opposition, 
she  desperately  dragged  him  back  to  a  recognition  of 
the  common  affairs  of  life. 

"  Surely,"  she  exclaimed,  "  your  mother's  been 
away  more  than  ten  minutes?  " 


306       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  "  It's  just  after  seven," 
he  said.  "  Wait  here  for  a  minute.  I'll  go  and 
find  her." 

As  he  left  the  room,  he  heard  somewhere  deep 
down  in  the  house,  the  distant  slamming  of  a  door. 

Cecilia  was  not  in  either  of  the  nurseries,  and  the 
drawing-room  was  quite  empty.  But  in  the  hall  he 
found  Butler  who  told  him  that  Mrs.  Threlfall  had 
gone  out  a  few  minutes  before.  She  had  not  said 
where  she  was  going,  nor  when  she  would  be  likely 
to  return. 


RETROSPECT 

IN  attempting  to  record  the  unfolding  of  a  life  in 
its  relation  to  a  definite  influence,  there  must  nec- 
essarily be  a  tendency  to  choose  only  such  incidents 
as  affect  that  relation.  And  for  this  reason,  the 
story  of  Stephen  Kirkwood's  life,  after  his  mother's 
influence  ceased  to  be  an  important  factor  in  it,  does 
not  fall  within  the  scope  of  this  book. 

Looking  back  upon  his  history,  one  sees  that  his 
slight  departure  from  the  normal  was  due  to  a  severe 
nervous  shock  in  his  early  childhood.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  that  spiritual  wound,  he  would  have  fol- 
lowed the  line  of  average  development,  have  broken 
away  from  Cecilia's  influence  when  he  was  seventeen, 
and  probably  have  married  his  cousin,  Phyllis  Bell. 
An  accident  saved  him  from  that.  He  was  caught  in 
a  tiny  swirl  of  fate  that  after  spinning  him  about  a 
fixed  center  for  seven  years,  flung  him  out  into  a 
channel  which  he  could  never  have  entered  if  he  had 
been  free  to  drift,  untethered  by  the  centripetal 
forces  of  that  spiritual  whirlpool.  But  once  he  was 
released  he  moved  on  with  the  common  tide;  and 
only  by  a  strained  and  prejudiced  reading  of  his 
future  life  could  the  early  influence  be  traced  in  his 
later  development. 

Wherefore,  this  excrescent  chapter  may  be  taken 
as  a  kind  of  appendix,  or  lengthy  foot-note,  designed 
to  give  a  detached  historical  summary  of  certain 
subsequent  events,  and  not  for  the  purposes  of  elab- 

307 


308        AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

orating  or  confirming  the  episode  which  closed  when 
Cecilia,  unable  to  bear  the  thought  of  witnessing 
Stephen's  blissful  adoration  of  Margaret,  made  her 
escape  from  the  house  in  Bedford  Square. 

Yet,  so  far  as  Cecilia  was  concerned,  the  original 
tangle  was  still  unloosed;  the  new  impetus  that  had 
come  to  her  at  forty  was  not  yet  exhausted.  Unfor- 
tunately her  affairs  no  longer  include  those  of  her 
son. 

They  met,  of  course,  quite  often;  but  their  in- 
terests were  moving  further  and  further  apart.  She 
was  bored  by  his  accounts  of  the  slowly  dissolving 
difficulties  that  interfered  between  him  and  Mar- 
garet; while  he  chafed  at,  and  was  inclined  to  rep- 
rimand her  growing  attachment  to  the  theater.  In 
those  earlier  meetings  their  old  relations  were  almost 
reversed.  He  would  be  the  teacher  and  she  was 
the  petulant,  quite  unmanageable  child. 

Nor  did  the  success  she  made  in  Norah  Crantock's 
comedy  do  anything  to  convince  him  that  Cecilia  at 
forty-eight  had  found  her  true  metier.  It  is,  in- 
deed, quite  certain  that  no  one  activity  could  ever 
bring  her  satisfaction.  She  was  too  various  and  too 
greedy  for  life,  and,  now,  at  fifty-seven  after  a  bril- 
liant but  too  brief  career  as  a  war-worker  in  many 
capacities  (including  the  entertainment  of  soldiers 
at  a  French  base-camp),  she  is  going  into  politics. 

She  still  lives  with  Sir  Christopher  Threlfall,  who 
received  his  knighthood  in  19 13,  by  which  time  he 
had  definitely  emerged  from  the  indignities  of  writ- 
ing popular  music  and  had  taken  his  place  as  an 
English  composer.  The  knighthood  did  him  good. 
It  steadied  him,  filling  him  with  ambition  for  respect- 
ability which  is  so  necessary  for  those  who  would 
achieve  distinction  in  an  English  art.  And  Cecilia 
was  content  to  stay  with  him,  so  long  as  he  did  not 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       309 

check  her  activities,  none  of  which  fortunately  had 
any  tendency  to  approach  the  scandalous. 

Her  plunge  into  politics  at  the  last  general  election 
( 19 1 8 ) ,  was  partly  due  to  the  precocious  blossoming 
of  little  Chris.  He  is  unquestionably  a  musical 
genius  and  Cecilia  was  driven  into  new  forms  of  self- 
assertion  by  his  rivalry.  She  is,  as  one  would  expect, 
an  uncommonly  good  speaker,  and  with  her  vitality 
has  still  a  future  before  her.  Her  father,  old  Ed- 
wardes,  is  still  a  hale  and  capable  man  at  eighty- 
seven. 

Stephen's  life  onward  from  that  Sunday  in  June 
when  he  proposed  to  Margaret,  would  make  another 
book  —  but  not  a  very  interesting  one. 

Being  a  practical  man  in  most  ways,  he  took  the 
logical  step  of  giving  James  Dickinson  his  fullest 
confidence  before  approaching  the  intimidating  and 
hypothetically  immovable  Dr.  Weatherley.  But 
Dickinson  was  somewhat  unsympathetic  at  the  out- 
set. He  had  a  prejudice  against  marriage,  and  was 
inclined,  without  any  kind  of  reason  to  find  points 
of  likeness  between  Margaret  and  his  own  wife. 

"  Was  that  the  girl  you  took  up  on  the  Scotch- 
man ?"  was  his  first  question,  thereby  momentarily 
embarrassing  Stephen  who  fondly  believed  that  his 
employer  was  ignorant  of  that  exploit.  But  his 
affection  for  Stephen  was  stronger  than  his  preju- 
dices, and  when  he  realized  the  quality  of  Stephen's 
love  for  Margaret,  he  gave  way  generously,  and  it 
was  James  Dickinson  who  ultimately  held  the  terri- 
ble interview  with  Weatherley. 

It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that  Weatherley 
did  not  permit  himself  to  be  persuaded.  His  dig- 
nity would  not  allow  him  to  oppose  the  marriage  by 
any  resort  to  physical  measures.     But  he  would  not 


310       AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER 

give  his  consent,  and  allowed  it  to  be  understood  that 
if  Margaret  married  Stephen,  she  would  do  it  against 
his  wishes  and  need  expect  no  further  financial  sup- 
port from  him.  What  largely  weighed  with  him, 
no  doubt,  was  the  memory  of  Stephen's  origin  and 
the  fact  that  he  had  two  very  middle-class  sisters, 
still  living  in  Medboro' —  one  a  national  school- 
mistress and  the  other  the  wife  of  a  chemist. 

Even  Margaret  was  a  little  shocked  by  her  real- 
izations of  Stephen's  family,  although  on  the  whole 
she  preferred  the  company  of  Emily  and  Hilda  to 
that  of  Mrs.  Bell  and  her  daughters.  That  prob- 
lem, however,  though  it  is  not  yet  solved,  has  only 
been  intermittent.  The  Kirkwoods  did  not  go  to 
live  in  Medboro'  until  the  beginning  of  19 12, —  be- 
fore that  they  had  a  small  flat  in  Bloomsbury, —  and 
then  they  were  only  there  for  twelve  months,  as 
Stephen  had  to  return  to  London  to  undertake  the 
supervision  of  another  big  job  that  the  firm  had  con- 
tracted for.  They  took  a  small  house  in  Hampstead 
on  this  occasion,  as  the  second  of  their  four  children 
had  already  arrived,  and  they  lived  there  until 
Stephen  returned  to  Medboro'  in  the  summer  of 
19 1 5,  first  to  overlook  the  alterations  necessary  to 
turn  the  Stretton  works  into  a  government  factory, 
and  afterwards  to  manage  it.  Later  the  govern- 
ment found  another  use  for  him,  but  although  he 
went  into  khaki  and  was  brevetted  Major  early  in 
19 1 8,  he  never  went  into  training  and  was  never  out 
of  England. 

But  there  is  little  interest  in  these  bare  facts,  and 
this  is  not  the  place  in  which  to  recount  those  intimate 
details  which  make  the  living  reality  of  our  daily 
life.  One  thing,  however,  may  be  added  though  the 
probability  of  it  should  be  manifest  from  what  has 
been  said  of  Stephen.     He  is  as  deeply  in  love  with 


AN  IMPERFECT  MOTHER       311 

Margaret,  now,  as  he  was  nine  years  ago.  Theirs 
is  one  of  those  ideal  marriages  that  are  so  exceed- 
ingly rare.  They  were  both  monogamous  by  in- 
stinct and  it  may  be  that  they  were  blessed  by  some 
special  ordinance  of  Fate.  For  it  is  not  possible  to 
account  for  their  happiness  in  each  other  by  any 
theory  either  of  likeness  or  of  a  particular  dove- 
tailing and  complementing  of  each  other's  char- 
acters. Nor  can  the  attraction  be  explained  after 
all  these  years  on  purely  physical  grounds;  though 
it  must  be  confessed  that  Margaret,  at  thirty,  is  an 
unusually  beautiful  and  gracious  lady. 


THE  END 


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